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23  WEST  MAIN  STITEET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)  872-4503 


0 


/ 


CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHM/ICMH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  IHistorical  iVIicroraproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiques 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes/Notes  techniques  at  bibliographiques 


The  Institute  has  attempted  to  obtain  the  best 
original  copy  available  for  filming.  Features  of  this 
copy  which  may  be  bibliographically  unique, 
which  may  alter  any  of  the  images  in  the 
reproduction,  or  which  may  significantly  change 
the  usual  method  of  filming,  are  checked  below. 


n 


D 


n 


n 

D 
D 


D 


D 


Coloured  covers/ 
Couverture  de  couleur 


I      I    Covers  damaged/ 


Couverture  endommagde 

Covers  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Couverture  restaurde  et/ou  pellicul6e 


I      I    Cover  title  missing/ 


Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 


Coloured  maps/ 

Cartes  gdographiques  en  couleur 


□    Coloured  ink  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)/ 
Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 


Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations/ 
Planches  et/ou  illustrations  en  couleur 


Bound  with  other  material/ 
Reli6  avec  d'autres  documents 

Tight  binding  may  cause  shadows  or  distortion 
along  interior  margin/ 

Lareliure  serrde  peut  causer  de  I'ombre  ou  de  la 
distortion  le  long  de  la  marge  int6rieure 

Blank  leaves  added  during  restoration  may 
appear  within  the  text.  Whenever  possible,  these 
have  been  omitted  from  filming/ 
II  se  peut  que  certaines  pages  blanches  ajout^es 
lors  d'une  restauration  apparaissent  dans  le  texte, 
mais,  lorsque  cela  6tait  possible,  ces  pages  n'ont 
pas  6t6  film^es. 

Additional  comments:/ 
Commentaires  suppldmentaires; 


L'Institut  a  microfilm^  le  meilleur  exemplaire 
qu'il  lui  a  6t6  possible  de  se  procurer.  Les  details 
de  cet  exemplaire  qui  sont  peut-dtre  uniques  du 
point  de  vue  bibliographique,  qui  peuvent  modifier 
une  image  reproduite,  ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une 
modification  dans  la  mdthode  normale  de  filmage 
sont  indiqu6s  cl-dessous. 


□    Coloured  pages/ 
Pages  de  couleur 

n    Pages  damaged/ 
Pages  endommag6es 

I      I    Pages  restored  and/or  laminated/ 


D 


Pages  restaur^es  et/ou  pellicul^es 

Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 
Pages  d6color6es,  tachetdes  ou  piqudes 


□    Pages  detached/ 
Pages  d6tachdes 

0Showthrough/ 
Transparence 

I      I    Quality  of  print  varies/ 


Quality  indgale  de  I'impression 

Includes  supplementary  material/ 
Comprend  du  matdriel  suppl^mentaire 

Only  edition  available/ 
Seule  Edition  disponible 


Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata 
slips,  tissues,  etc.,  have  been  refilmed  to 
ensure  the  best  possible  image/ 
Les  pages  totalement  ou  ^artiellement 
obscurcies  par  un  feuillet  d'errata,  une  pelure, 
etc.,  ont  6t6  filmdes  d  nouveau  de  fapon  d 
obtenir  la  meilleure  image  possible. 


This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ce  document  est  filmd  au  taux  de  reduction  indiqud  ci-dessous. 


10X 

14X 

18X 

22X 

26X 

30X 

y 

12X 

16X 

20X 

24X 

28X 

32X 

plaire 
es  details 
iques  du 
int  modifier 
ixiger  une 
de  filmage 


8d/ 
iqudes 


itaire 


The  copy  filmed  here  has  been  reproduced  thanks 
to  the  generosity  of: 

National  Library  of  Canada 


The  images  appearing  here  are  the  best  quality 
possible  considering  the  condition  and  legibility 
of  the  original  copy  and  in  keeping  with  the 
filming  contract  specifications. 


Original  copies  in  printed  paper  covers  are  filmed 
beginning  with  the  front  cover  and  ending  on 
the  last  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, or  the  back  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
other  original  copies  are  filmed  beginning  on  the 
first  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustrated  impression. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  •—►(meaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  the  symbol  V  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  applies. 

Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


L'exemplaire  film6  fut  reproduit  grdce  d  la 
g6n6roslt6  de: 

Bibliothdque  nationale  du  Canada 


Les  images  suivantes  ont  6t6  reproduites  avec  le 
plus  grand  soin,  compte  tenu  de  la  condition  et 
de  la  nettet6  de  l'exemplaire  filrr.6,  et  en 
conformity  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmage. 

Les  exemplaires  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
papier  est  imprim6e  sont  film^s  en  commengant 
par  ie  premier  plat  et  en  terminant  soit  par  la 
dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration,  soit  par  le  second 
plat,  selon  le  cas.  Tous  les  autres  exemplaires 
originaux  sont  fiimds  en  commen^ant  par  la 
premidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration  et  en  terminant  par 
la  dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 

Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparaitra  sur  la 
dernidre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  le  symbole  ^►^  signifie  "A  SUIVRE",  le 
symbole  V  signifie  "FIN". 

Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  dtre 
film6s  d  des  taux  de  reduction  diffdrents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  dtre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  clichd,  il  est  filmd  d  partir 
de  Tangle  sup6rieur  gauche,  de  gauche  d  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  ndcessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  mdthode. 


d  by  errata 
Imed  to 

ment 

I,  une  pelure, 

9  faqon  d 

le. 


1 

2 

3 

32X 


1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

1 


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IN   RE  WALT  WHITMAN 


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IN  RE  WALT  WHITMAN:  EDITED  BY  HIS 
LITERARY  EXECUTORS,  HORACE  L 
TRAUBEL,  RICHARD  MAURICE  BUCKE, 
THOMAS  B.  HARNED 


"Now,  though  this  great  country  is  seen  to  deserve  in  many  ways 
the  wonder  of  mankind,  and  is  held  to  be  well  worth  visiting,  rich  in 
all  good  things,  guarded  by  large  force  of  men,  yet  seems  it  to  have 
held  within  it  nothing  more  glorious  than  this  man,  nothing  more 
holy  ^  marvellous  and  dear.  The  verses,  too,  of  his  godlike  genius, 
cry  with  a  loud  voice,  and  set  forth  in  such  wise  his  glorious  discov- 
eries that  he  hardly  seems  bom  of  a  mortal  stock" — Lucrrtius. 


Published  hy  the  Editors  through 

DAVID  McKAY 

23   South   Ninth   Street 

PHIIvADELPHIA 

1893 


Edition  One  Thousand  Copies. 
Number    OfJeJ. 


Copyright,  1893,  by 

Horace  L.  Traubrl,  Richard  Maurice  Bucke 
AND  Thomas  B.  Harned. 


OFORaC     l<.    FERQUSOW     CO., 

PRIS  'IHS  AN^  'LIOVROTYPERS, 

PHILADELPHIA. 


vid  Copies. 

J3 


A  FIRST  AND   LAST  WORD. 


KB 


A  LETTER  written  by  Walt  Whitman  to  Dr.  Bucke,  in  Septem- 
ber, 1888,  read  tiius : 

"  Of  late  I  hav»  two  or  three  times  occupied  spells  of  an  hour 
or  two  hours  by  running  over  with  best  &  alertest  sense,  &  mel- 
lowed &  ripened  by  five  years,  your  1883  book  (biographical  & 
critical)  about  me  &  L  of  G — &  my  very  deliberate  &  serious  mind 
to  you  is  that  you  let  it  stand  just  as  it  is — &  if  you  have  any- 
thing farther  to  write  or  print,  book  shape,  you  do  so  in  an  ad- 
ditional or  further  annex  (of  say  100  pages  to  its  present  236 
ones)  leaving  the  present  1883  vol.  intact,  as  't  is,  any  verbal 
errors  excepted — &  the  further  pages  as  (mainly)  reference  to 
and  furthermore  etc.  of  the  original  vol — the  text,  O'C's  letters, 
the  appendix — every  page  of  the  236  left  as  now — this  is  my 
spinal  and  deliberate  request — the  conviction  the  main  thing — 
the  details  &  reasons  not  put  down." 

The  present  volume  may  be  regarded  in  the  light  of  the  "An- 
nex "  foreseen  by  Walt  Whitman.  And  this  is  especially  per- 
missible since,  as  a  matter  of  fact.  Whitman  shared  during  his 
lifetime  in  seme  of  our  earlier  preparations,  and  on  all  occasions 
referred  to  the  scheme  as  one  Jiat  "  seemed  necessary  to  the  ful- 
ler elucidation  of  the  critter  and  the  cause." 

A  distinguished  American  oritic,  into  whose  hand  fell  our 
orisjinal  announcement,  in  which  we  referred  to  the  book  as  "  a 
darling  project"  of  Walt  Whitman  himself,  remarked:  "It  is 


,?:    ■ 


y\ 


A  FIRST  AND  LAST  WORD. 


curious,  anyway.  I  could  not  imagine  Whitticr,  for  instance, 
as  ever  iharing  or  having  anything  to  do  with  '  a  darling  pro- 
ject'  that  concerned  his  own  fame."  But  as  good  reasons  as 
would  have  made  Whittier  abstain  did  induce  Whitman  to  avow 
his  concern. 

Whitman  had  cosmic  breadth  iind  port.  His  "Leaves" 
foliage  the  heavens.  He  was  so  comi-licated  with  all  men  and 
all  phenomena  that  his  very  voice  partook  of  the  sway  of  elemen- 
tal integrity  and  candor.  Nature  has  not  shame  nor  vainglory, 
nor  had  he,  and  there  was  never  a  breath  of  distrust  in  his  utter- 
ances from  first  to  last.  Absolutely  candid,  he  was  absolutely 
unafraid.  "  Leaves  of  Grass  "  has  a  tone  peculiarly  its  own  and 
strange  in  all  the  annals  of  literary  creation.  Whitman  speaks 
in  it  as  would  heaven,  making  unalterable  announcements,  orac- 
ular of  the  mysteries  and  powers  that  pervade  and  guide  all  life, 
all  death,  all  purpose. 

His  consistent  and  uncompromising  acceptance  of  the  indi- 
vidual was  necessary,  since  any  color  or  show  of  personal  abase- 
ment must  have  shaken  faith  in  his  own  revelation.     Therefore 
could  he  say  to  us  on  his  death-bed :  "Go  on  with  the  book — 
let  it  tell  its  story.     Its  victory  will  not  be  mine,  yours — any  par- 1 
ticular  man's  victory:  it  will  be  a  victory  of  fact,  of  evolution,! 
of  religion.  .  .    .   Why,  then,  should  we  be  apologetic,  suppli-J 
eating  ? — why  hesitate  to  speak  bravely  out,  not  fearing  to  be  sell 
aside  by  the  shameless  modesties  that  in  our  civilization  often 
pass  for  virtues?" 

This  cluster  of  written  matter — abstract,  descriptive,  anecdotal, 
biographical,  statistical,  poetic — in  effect  supplements  the  vol- 
ume produced  years  ago  by  Dr.  Bucke  under  Whitman's  counsel 
and  credit.  The  aim  has  been  to  avoid  having  the  two  volumes 
repeat  each  other.     Each  contributes  a  part,  and  the  two  together 


A  FIRST  AND  LAST   WORD. 


vu 


present  a  measurably  complete  ami  flowing  narrative.  Whitman 
again  Jvisccl  us  :  "  The  main  thing  is  to  make  the  picture  true. 
The  rest  will  take  care  of  itself — the  rest  must  surely  follow." 

These  pages,  then,  are  variously  charged,  but  with  a  burden 
whose  import  is  jmrely  according  to  Whitman's  wish  and  ex- 
pectation. The  main  part  of  the  matter  is  new.  Some  of  it  is 
republished  from  inaccessible  sources,  because  it  may  have  more 
than  temporary  importance.  Some  of  it  comes  for  the  first  time 
into  Englisii  by  the  hands  of  translators.  As  the  work  has  been 
planned  and  has  grown  it  becomes  in  effect  a  fresh  gift,  in  which 
even  repetition  brings  life  again. 

Whitman  always  insisted  that  his  book  should  be  recognized 
as  something  apart  from  or  more  than  a  literary  performance. 
He  spoke  of  it  as  "a  cause."  And  he  claimed  that  it  was  a 
cause  in  which  all  were  interested,  and  that  if  his  book  failed  to 
speak  for  all,  or  failed  to  make  one  voice  of  many  voices,  it 
had  failed  of  its  motive  and  aim.  "  First  the  human,  then  the 
literary,"  was  his  declared  maxim. 

There  are  certain  es  ays  here  included  which  he  intended 
using  in  his  latest  volume,  and  the  design  of  this  book  really 
arose  from  our  vehement  objection  to  such  a  course  as  the  one  he 
proposed.  Why  violate  the  integrity  of  his  own  work  with  that 
of  another,  be  this  other  however  exct\  nt  ?  In  the  end  he  saw 
that  we  were  right.  But  before  the  matter  v  s  concluded  we  had 
struck  upon  the  notion  that  a  volume  up  to  include  the 

several  articles  so  much  esteemed  by  W  mti  .  as  interpretations 
of  his  history,  and  such  other  chapters  as  would  broaden  the 
measure  of  the  picture,  would  have  an  importance  not  to  be  over- 
esteemed.  Along  through  1891,  and  even  down  to  his  death,  Whit- 
man discussed  with  us  all  plans  and  propositions.  His  sickness 
delayed  our  progress.     But  on  his  death-bed  he  frequently  re- 


I 


vUi 


A    FJ/iST  A     It   LAST    WOlilK 


verted  to  our  earlier  ideas  and  <  Iwirgcd  that  tliey  should  "  in 
Kome  way  be  fulfilled."  Once  a  friend  lauyhinj^ly  rallied  him  : 
"  Yi)U  ( oiiUI  not  take  more  interest  in  this  book  if  it  was  about 
*  some  other  person  !  "  Ho  laughed  ami  responded  with  a  (|UC8- 
tion  :  "  Is  it  not  about  some  other  person  ?  It  is  about  all  the 
Mes  with  which  the  'Leaves'  will  bo  finally  concerned." 
Kurtherniore,  ho  counselled:  "  I,et  it  be  personal — very  near, 
very  intimate:  don't  be  afraid  to  make  it  personal,  don't  be 
afraid  to  let  yourselves  out  !  " 

And  so  we  complete  tlie  offering,  as  partly  from  his  hand  and 
partly  from  our  own.  Wo  have  not  souglit  to  be  literary  nor 
feared  to  be  personal.  "  Dr.  Miicko's  book  strikes  no  uncertain 
note  as  far  as  it  goes,"  said  VVliitman,  "  but  since  Hucke  sjioke 
out  other  interests  have  appca.ed  and  have  needed  uttorers.  The 
new  book  will  amplify  the  old — the  two,  taken  together,  will 
round  the  story." 

Wliitman's  death  in  no  sense  affected  our  general  scheme.  It 
induced  us  to  add  considerable  matter  descriptive  of  his  last 
days,  and  it  seemed  to  give  finish  to  a  book  which  might  imder 
other  conditions  have  appeared  fragmentary  and  unsatisfactory. 

And  so  this  sheaf  of  wheat,  this  foodstuff  for  the  future,  this 
jirodigal  of  earth  and  sky,  is  dedicated  and  sent  forth. 

Camukn,  Nkw  Jkksey,  ^     • 

Septcmhcr  i,  i.Sqj. 


CONTENTS. 


Kovic  AM)  Dkath:   a  Svmi'IIonv,  J'lm  AiUhti^ton  Symonits,  i 
Wai.t  Whitman  and  his  1'okms,  ll'olf  H'fiJtm.iH,  i,^ 

IjJAVI'.S  (II-   (iRASS:     A   Vol.UMK   «)I'   I'dKMS  Jl'ST    rilHMSIIHO,    l^all 

ll'/iitiiiiin,  23 
An  1''nc.i,isii  and  \n  American  Tokt,  /////  l('/iio>/,iii,  27 

NOTICS    I'ROM   CoNVKRSATlONS   WITH   (JivURt'.K   W.  WHITMAN,    I893: 

MosTi.v  IN  If  IS  Own  Worms,  lloiuue  I..  Tinubd,  ■i^x, 
A  Woman's  Kstimatic  or  Wai.t  Whitman,  Anne  i!iUhtist,i^\ 
TiiK  Man  Wai.t  Whitman,  Jiii/iniil  Mum  ice  /imke,  t^-j 
I<i;tti;ks  in  Sickni;ss:  Washinc.ton,  1S7J,  H'nfi  H'/iitiiiiiii,'jj, 
Wai.t  Whitman  and  his  Rkcknt  Critics,///'/  Jiiinoi4,;fis,<j^ 
Wai.t  Whitman  at  Datk,  J/ontte  /,.  'Jniulul,  109 

"Till':     (.(lOI)     (iKAY     1'OKT:      Suri'I.lCMICNTAI.,"      ll'il/iiim       Jhiu^lili 

O'Connor,  149 
Wai.t  Whitman,    Gabriel  Sarrazin :     Tnins/iitetl  /rjin    the   Frenih   ly 

J/,irri.u'n  S.  Morris,  159 

Dutch  Traits  ok  Wai.t  Whitman,  WiiUtim  shhtne  K'i>nne,ly,  195 
Wai.t  Whitman:    I'okt  and  riiii.osoi'HK.R  and  Man,   J/,<r,ue  L. 

'J'raubel,  201 
QUAKKR    Traits    ok    Wai.t    Whitman,      William    Shane  K,nnedy, 

213 
Wai.t  Whitman,  Karl  h'nor/z:     Translated  from  the  German  by  Alfred 
Forman  and  Riihard  Maiirire  Jiuil'e,  215 

Walt  Whitman,  tiik   Pokt  ok  Amkrican   Dkmocracy,  Rudolf 

Schmidt  :    Translated  from  the  Danish  by  A'.  M.  Bain   and  Richard 
Maurice  Bucke,  231 
"LRAVKS  OK  Grass"  AND  ModKRNSciBNCK,  Richard  Maurice  Bucke,, 
249 


l.lHHttTV    IN    I.ITHMATItMU,    A',<f','>/    (,'.  tHfitH,>/t,  Jfl;^ 

VVai.t   WllliivlAN,    /;    /«•.    /i',y/,.A««/    lutn'^liUf,!  fnm   thf   (Iftmnn  hy 

.■11/ > fit  /oitihni  ,i»,/  /\'i,h,ti,i  Af.itiiiif  fUiiHtr,  jHij 
MoiiNM  Taiii.k  with  Wai.t  VVimtman,  tt,<i,„f  /..  r>„iiM,  mi 
Wai.t  Whitman  ani»  tii«  Cuhmu:  Hknhh,  Ki,h,v,i  M,tmuf  lUitke, 

lMMiH«TAI,ITV,    ll'.iff  U'AlfHhttt,  ^n 

Tim   I'liHT  or   Immuutai.itv,    //i,wi,i<   n    tt,tt»f,t,   ^,^l,>^ 

VV'Al.r    WlMIMAN    ANII   Till'.   CuMMilN    l'l',UI'l,l'„    /,i//«   /iuil  ,<Ht;/t<,  ;\r,;\ 
MV   HllMMHH    WITH    WaI.T   VVlMTMArj.    iMH;,    ^hi'iuv    II    M,„x,,    yfq 
TlIU    I.AHT   HllKNUH.M    ANI>    TIIK,    IlKATII    UV  VVAI.T  WHITMAN,   IhWUt 

l<VHT  Davm  tir  Wai.t  Wiiri'MAN,   /,  ir  /rWA»rA  .|1.^ 

At  Tint,  nHAVii.mnir.  or  Wai.t  Whitman.  //,»,/,,■  A,  ■ri,utM,,\si 

I'liitMH  ANii  MiNuu  I'lmnq!  l-uMii  (,'foii,-,-  ll,i>t,<»,  it\  ft,wi  /'tmih, 
V'i  /'>'»/  \\..lf  U  hi/nt,»i,T>\  from  Atihui  l.\u,h,  \/\,'A\  ftom  /',/»;. 
Ulus,  isM|  fusm  K.twntii  I'ltv'i/rft,  HH)\  ftx<m  \\,ilt  Whitnunt,  ;>f)0( 
fy-i'm.-l.  /<.'.  t  ,)»<fstft\i\i\  ft,m  ll'.i/f  Wfnfm,)H.  tt^i;  fhon  Sf,ni,fhli 
<''f.>. »./'!■.  J«|;  f),Mn  «,'.  ('.  ,)f,i,,ni/,iv,  fi)(>;  />,<iii  ll,im/hi  i.'inAiit,!, 
XiH;  f\.'m  Sf,t„.f,xh  (>'r,r,f,/|..  ,\,\^\  pom  /,>lni  h'uxkiit,  \^i;  from 
r.fu'.nW  /',>;,-,/,«,  \n}i  from  Sf,)n,iixh  ()' (,'t,t,i'\;  \^i;  from  Sf.iMilhh 
(>'(.>tf.n',  \(\i\  from  /oo^titH  MiUrt,  {(tO;  from  Si,/nry  l,itii,r,  )(MJ 
ftim  Kof>ttl  Hu,h,)ti,tH,  \\yi\  f,om  ll'.i/f  W'hitm.nt,  ^M;  from  John 
MMiMxf't^  Svmotuh,  41 4  (  from  lr,,ii,i\  llow,if,l  Hi/liums,  4jO. 


n   Ihf   liftmnn  t>y 


LOVE  AND  DRATH  :   A  SYMPHONY.* 


riy  yoim  At<" inc,  ton  s vmonds. 


I'inl  Afovement. 


A,  IhiuM,  4.^7 


Ton  loiif?  linvo  I  refrained ;   too  hm%  ttre  (liimb 

Tlir  prrlndiiif^M  of  jtjissionrttc  jir(»|»lH'(  y. — 

Klarc  of  triiitnpliant  l,riiiii|ict,  fifo,  and  drum 

Hiartlcs  my  imising  soul's  tnonotony. — 

A  iiiiglitirr  spirit  tlinn  my  own  controls 

Tlic  slorm  of  tiirbidcnt  tiiotij^hfs  tliat  siirfrr  in  mc. 

l'lioil)os  Apolloii  !  (lie  firrfc  tlmiidcr  rolls; 

The  Mckcrinf^  flames  dest  c  nd  ;  my  sails  arc  driven 

Forth  to  the  sea,  whereof  the  waves  arc  sonis, 

Whose  flux  and  reflux  between  Hell  and  Heaven 

Are  Love  and  Death,  twin  brcjtbcrs  I — 


Hard  sublime, 
To  whom  the  keys  of  mysteries  are  given, 
'I'hroned  in  thine  orb,  fulftlling  Space  and  Time, 
Noting  the  world's  words  with  unerring  earl 
How  shall  1  dare  in  this  ephemeral  rhyme 
To  tell  what  thou  hast  taught  me,  to  inisphcrc 
The  new-born  star,  thy  |)lanet,  the  desire 
Of  nations  faltering  in  a  night  of  fear, — 
More  marvellous  than  Phosphor  or  the  fire 
Of  Hesperus  love-lorn,  not  less  divine 
Than  timt  first  splendor  from  the  angelic  » hoir 
Flashed  on  poor  shepherd-folk  in  Palestine? 

*Tn  the  pro|iliet  poet  of  Democi'nc".  Religion,  Love,  tliis  verse,  n  feeble 
■ic\w  of  hi»  Hung,  iR  licilicalod, 

(•) 


JN  RE   WALT  WHITMAN, 

Thou  dost  establish — and  our  hearts  receive — 
New  laws  of  Love  to  link  and  intertwine 
Majestic  peoples ;  Love  to  weld  and  weave 
Comrade  to  comrade,  man  to  bearded  man. 
Whereby  indissoluble  hosts  shall  cleave 
Unto  the  primal  truths  republican. 


Not  therefore  is  our  worship  less  to  thee, 

First  Muse  and  mistress  of  the  primeval  Pan, 

Nurse  of  the  seedlings  of  Humanity  I 

Thou  shrined  within  our  inmost  spirit's  core, 

Mother  and  Mate  and  Sister,  One  and  Three  I 

Thou  to  the  altar  steps  of  heaven  didst  soar, 

Madonna,  maiden  mystery,  whose  womb 

Made  man  and  God  one  flesh  for  evermore. 

Nay,  not  the  less  art  thou  life's  beauty-bloom. 

Bride,  whom  we  seek  and  cleave  to  ! — Though  afar. 

Half  buried  in  dim  mist  and  murky  spume, 

We  watch  the  rising  of  thy  brother  star, 

Imperious,  awful,  vague  in  night,  whose  rays, 

Mingled  of  azure  hues  and  cinnabar, 

Shed  hope  and  fear  on  the  dim  water-ways. 

Friend,  Brother,  Comrade,  Lover  !  last  and  best  I 

That  from  this  dull  diurnal  strife  dost  raise 

My  panting  soul  to  thy  celestial  rest ! 

How  holy  are  the  heavens  when  thou  art  near  I 

I  soar,  I  float,  I  rock  me  on  thy  breast ; 

The  music  of  thy  melodies  I  hear ; 

I  see  thee  aureoled  with  living  light 

Lean  from  the  lustrous  rondure  of  thy  sphere. 

Ethereal,  disei.ibodied ;  whom  the  blight 

Of  warping  passion  hath  no  power  to  tame ;   .     . 

Who  fearest  not  with  eye  serenely  bright 

To  gaze  on  death  and  sorrow  and  mortal  shame— 

For  who  art  Thou  to  tremble  or  turn  pale, 

Whose  life  is  Love  eternally  the  same? 


LOVE  AND  DEATH:  A  SYMPHONY. 

How  shall  I  praise  Thee  ?  with  what  voice  prevail 

O'er  legioned  heretics,  that,  madly  blind, 

Imagining  a  vain  thing,  rise  and  rail 

Against  thy  sanctity  of  godhood  shrined 

In  beauty  of  white  light  they  may  not  bear? 

Lo  I  Thou,  even  Thou,  in  thine  own  time  shalt  bind 

And  break  their  kings  and  captains  !  from  thin  air 

Forth-flashing  fiery-browed  and  unsubdued. 

Thine  athletes  shall  consume  them  unaware  I 

Yea,  even  now,  like  Northern  streamers  hued 

With  radiant  roses  of  the  ascendant  morn, 

I  see  thy  fierce  unfaltering  multitude 

Of  lovers  and  of  friends  in  tranquil  scorn 

Arise,  o'erspread  the  dusky  skies,  and  drown 

In  seas  of  flame  the  pallid  stars  forlorn. 

There  shall  be  comrades  thick  as  flowers  that  crown 

Valdarno's  gardens  in  the  morn  of  May ; 

On  every  upland  and  in  every  town 

Their  dauntless  imperturbable  array, 

Serried  like  links  of  living  adamant 

By  the  sole  law  of  love  their  wills  obey, 

Shall  make  the  world  one  fellowship,  and  plant 

New  Paradise  for  nations  yet  to  be. 


O  nobler  peerage  than  that  ancient  vaunt 

Of  Arthur  or  of  Roland  !     Chivalry 

Long  sought,  last  found  !     Knights  of  the  Holy  Ghost 

Phalanx  Immortal !     True  Freemasonry, 

Building  your  temples  on  no  earthly  coast. 

But  with  star-fire  on  souls  and  hearts  of  man  ! 

Stirred  from  their  graves  to  greet  your  Sacred  Host 

The  Theban  lovers,  rising  very  wan, 

By  death  made  holy,  wave  dim  palms,  and  cry : 

**  Hail,  Brothers  !  who  achieve  what  we  began  !  '*■ 

O  Love  in  Death  !     O  Love  that  canst  not  die  t 


I 


JN  RF   WALT  WHITMAN. 

O  Death  whom  Love  on  wings  of  steady  fire 

Piercing  to  perfect  life,  doth  sanctify  ! 

In  vain  unto  your  summits  I  aspire, 

As  though  from  heaven  descending  I  might  bring 

Flame-words  of  force  to  make  dull  hearts  desire 

The  seething  waters  of  your  sacred  spring  ! 

Ho  !  ye  that  sigh  for  freedom,  ye  that  yearn, 

Pent  in  this  prison-house  of  languishing ! 

Haste  to  the  everlasting  fountains  :  turn 

Your  trammels  of  the  flesh  to  yielding  air : 

Your  aching  hours,  your  tears  that  freeze  and  burn, 

Your  dear  expense  of  passionate  despair, 

Barter  for  hope  unbounded,  perfect  bliss  ! 

Who  swoons  for  very  love,  who  longs  to  snare 

Two  separate  souls  in  one  perennial  kiss. 

To  merge  the  bounds  of  being,  to  become 

Of  twain  one  sentient  shape  of  blessedness — 

Let  him  seek  Death  !     There,  in  that  tranquil  dome, 

Where  what  we  were  dissolves,  what  we  must  be 

Endures  regenerate,  there  the  living  home 

Of  Love  defies  corruptibility.  . 


Second  Movement. 

Thus  far  the  chords  tumultuous  through  my  soul 
Swept  from  the  lyre  of  him,  whose  solemn  chant 
Reverberates  like  midnight  thunder-roll 
Mid  thwarting  hills  and  pinewoods  resonant. 
Then  on  my  dreaming  eyes — as  though  to  base    • 
The  promise  of  the  Future  against  taunt 
Or  tumult  of  the  turbulent  populace — 
There  rose  a  vision  of  the  glimmering  Past, 
Clear,  though  scarce-seen,  like  a  remembered  face. 


A  city  of  the  Plague,  suspense,  aghast. 
Through  all  her  silent  streets  and  temples  dim 


(&.V,. 


Jfc'*-  ■'.. . .-    1 


i2Et35iriSL:jfc<[WKtfiaBiftfii 


-K'^'  '-21 


LOVE  AND  DEATH:  A  SYMPHONY. 

With  dusky  pyre-smoke  and  with  incense  cast 
In  vain  to  soothe  insensible  teraphim  : — 
Black-stoled  processions  along  ways  erewhile 
Clamorous  with  Bacchic  shout  and  marriage  hymn  ;— 
With  beaten  breast,  with  ominous  shriek,  they  pile 
Corpse  upon  corpse ;  then  bid  the  flickering  fire. 
Lurid  on  palace-porch  and  peristyle, 
Wrap  in  one  ravening  sheet,  ascending  higher 
Than  Pallas  brazen  on  the  city's  brow. 
Mother  and  maid,  wife,  brother,  son  and  sire. 
Day  after  day  they  perished.     Then,  for  now 
The  people  were  foredone  with  wasting  woe, 
Spake  the  deep-throated  prophet : 

"Vow  for  vow; 
Blood  for  shed  blood ;  for  blow  malignant  blow : 
Think  ye  the  gods  forget  ?     Think  ye  the  stain 
Of  sacrilege  and  slaughter  long  ago 
Spilt  to  insult  the  unappeasable  fane 
Of  blood-born,  blood-bedewed  Eumenides, 
Beareth  not  fruit  and  blossometh  again  ? 
I  tell  you,  for  the  rrime  of  Megacles — 
Your  crime,  since  who  hath  purged  you  ? — like  a  tree 
Springs  the  dread  vengeance  of  dim  goddesses. 
Now  therefore  heed  my  message :  let  there  be 
Ere  morning-light  two  lives  of  men  free-born 
By  voluntary  choice  and  service  free 
To  death  for  saving  of  the  city  sworn  : 
Die  must  they ;  this  the  gods  require ;  than  this 
No  less  shall  pluck  from  Athens'  heel  the  thorn 
That  rankles  and  corrodes  her  comeliness. 
Lo !  I  have  spoken.     Take  ye  now  good  care : 
For  like  a  dream  or  drop  of  dew  your  bliss 
Shall  surely  wither  into  wandering  air, 
Till  men  cry :  Here  was  Athens  !     By  yon  stone 
Note  where  her  temples  and  her  houses  were ! 
Unless  the  debt,  exacted  now,  and  grown  , 

Enormous  by  long  lapse,  be  fully  paid !  " 


.  i. urMyii^v^sguitiliw. 


IN  RE   WALT  WHITMAN. 

Thus  Epimenides.     With  muttered  moan 

The  people  heard,  and  bowed  faint  heads,  and  laid 

Dust  on  rent  raiment^  with  dull  grief  distraugi.t. 

That  eve  two  lovers  in  the  leafy  glade 
Of  cool  Colonos,_  soothed  to  solemn  thought 
By  songs  the  night-bird  flung  for  very  mirth, 
As  though  no  lurid  air  weighed  fever-fraught 
O'er  the  hushed  city  and  the  sickening  earth. 
Lay  merged  in  dreamings  of  the  doom  to  be.    • 
Their  sounding  titles,  their  resplendent  birth,. 
Their  strength,  their  beauty,  their  young  chivalry. 
Shall  these  be  told,  or  in  the  noontide  blaze 
Of  their  great  deed  be  swallowed  utterly  ? 
Ah  !  wherefore  from  the  Limbo  of  dead  days 
Recall  thy  name,  Cratinus?     Wherefore  dare 
To  vex  thy  laurel  wreath  with  wordy  praise, 
Aristodemus?     Noble,  valiant,  fair, 
Of  equal  youth  and  hoiior,  for  the  pride 
Of  Hellas  they  arose,  a  stately  pair. 
Vast  was  the  love  between  them — deep  and  wide 
As  heaven  up-breaking  through  a  myriad  spheres : 
Sevenfold  had  it  been  proved  and  purified 
By  yearnings,  and  by  achings,  and  by  tears^ 
By  fierce  abstentions,  and  by  fierce  recoils 
Into  the  furnace-fire  througi   throbbing  years. 
Now  nobly  tempered,  from  t)ie  transient  toils 
Of  sense  set  free  for  luminous  emprize, 
This  love,  elate,  arrayed  in  radiant  spoils. 
Shone  like  a  beacon-light  from  ardent  eyes. 

"  O  true  and  tried  !  "— 

So  speech  belike  arose 
Between  them,  as  strong  winds  in  summer  rise 
With  surge  Eolian  from  the  rapt  repose 
Of  midnight,  to  sweep  silent  lands  and  fail, 
Crying :  Dawn  comes ;  the  golden  gates  unclose  j 


"^.jiiX. 


rr-£.am^jii^mmiM\^  i  i«*ii'  i .  ■ 


■  ■r'larggrr-'raarTa  «.wiA.F  mM 


LOVE  AND  DEATH:  A  SYMPHONY, 

Before  the  bridegroom's  feet  of  fire  we  sail ! — 

"  O  true  as  beaten  brass  !     O  trebly  tried 

As  adamantine  plates  of  linked  mail  I 

Sleep'st  thou,  or  ponderest  what  the  prophet  cried  ? 

Wherefore  should  we  then  live  ?    The  athlete's  crown  j 

The  warrior's  brow  with  bay  leaves  glorified ; 

Seats  at  the  hearth-stone  of  our  mother-town  ;    • 

To  round  and  ring  the  whole,  an  honoured  tomb ; 

These  hopes  are  ours.     Were  it  not  well  to  drown 

These  good  things  in  one  best  ?  to  pluck  the  bloom 

Now  perfect  of  young  life  and  love,  that  ne'er 

Can  fill  her  cup  again  of  pure  perfume 

Or  spread  fresh  petals  to  the  nourishiiig  air? 

This  flower  once  gathered  will  not  die ;  no  rime 

Shall  nip  the  delicate  leaves ;  no  storm  shall  bare 

The  anthered  gold  ;  no  treacherous  sap  shall  climb 

The  fragile  tubes  with  husk  of  hardening  fruit 

To  choke  the  fretwork  of  the  fiery  prime. 

Who  knows — forgive  me,  Love  ! — what  little  root 

Of  bitterness  might  rise  to  mar  our  joy  ? 

Dimmed  eyes,  chilled  hearts,  dry  lips  with  languor  mute, 

Tiie  years  that  wither,  and  the  years  that  cloy, 

These  come  to  other  lovers :  shall  we  stay 

To  suffer  chance  and  change,  our  souls  destroy  ? 

Did  not  Patroclus  die  ?    Achilles  pay, 

Though  goddess-born,  his  life,  a  little  price,       "• 

For  love  made  sure,  for  fame  that  flouts  decay  ? 

Why  linger  ?    Why  turn  back  ?    Fix  steadfast  eyes 

There  on  the  goal  of  daring  !     Is  it  nought 

That  thus  fulfilling  a  fair  sacrifice. 

The  peace  of  Athens  by  our  blood  be  bought  ? 

Nought  that  we  shine  for  ever  in  pure  gold 

At  Delphian  altars ;  that  our  tale  be  taught 

On  songs  from  lips  of  mighty  poets  rolled, 

To  lovers  and  to  lopging  youths  afire 

With  sorrow  that  our  sacred  dust  is  cold  ? 

Oh!  with  what  ardent  hearts,  what  proud  desire. 


• 


iW 


IN  RE  WALT  WHITMAN. 

Shall  thosie  young  souls  yearn  after  us — what  lays 
Year  after  year  the  laurel-wreathed  choir, 
Circling  our  shrine  with  hymns  and  holy  praise. 
Shall  waft  to  isles  Elysian,  where  we  lie 
Mid  lilies  and  Imperishable  bays  I '' 

In  such  lapt  communing  and  converse  high 

Methinks  those  lovers  lingered,  sphere  by  sphere 

Ascending  the  celestial  galaxy 

Of  burning  thoughts —  :  as  some  rash  pioneer. 

Skirting  an  inaccessible  precipice 

Grade  over  grade,  beholds  at  length  the  sheer 

Waste  of  wide  heaven  unfold,  a  wilderness 

Of  air  and  light  spanning  the  supine  world: 

Thus  they  on  wings  out-soaring  the  abyss 

Of  fears  and  cares  and  joys  diurnal,  hurled 

Their  souls  forth  at  a  venture,  sprang  like  light 

Into  ecstatic  comet-cyc  les  whirled 

Round  heaven's  ascendant  spirals  infinite. 

Growing  enamored  of  the  thought  of  Death, 

They  cried : 

"  Hail,  Death  !    Brother  of  nourishing  Night! 
May  fails;  the  might  of  summer  minisheth; 
And  mortal  love  endures  a  little  space  : 
Nay,  even  now  we  draw  a  dying  breath ; 
Our  life  is  one  brief  flight  to  thine  embrace: 
But  thy  perennial  foison  shall  not  fade ; 
No  wrinkles  shall  corrode  thy  tranquil  face ; 
Nor  shall  thy  blissful  slumber  be  o'erlaid 
With  such  vain  dreams  as  trouble  human  sleep. 
Brother  of  Love !  whose  might  by  thee  is  made 
More  lasting  than  the  adamantine  steep 
Of  walls  Olympian  !  unto  thee  we  turn ;        ' 
Into  thine  ageless  hands,  to  guard  anc  keep,  '' ' 

We  yield  these  souls  unterrified,  that  burn 
//or  draughts  of  cooling  from  thy  sacred  lake. 
Thirst  deep  as  ours  disdains  life's  shallow  urn  ; 


^> '  V-.-"-<-ia'-attiaaiPJ3H 


mmmtmttim 


LOVE  AND  i)EATH:  A  SYMPHONY. 

While  from  thy  we'l  gods  yearn  in  vain  to  slake 
The  lingering  fevci  of  immortal  hours." 


Morn  now  began  to  whiten  in  the  wake 

Of  Phosphor  :  far  athwart  dim  olive-bowers  * 

Freshened  the  breeze  of  dawning  :  so  they  rose. 

As  one  with  toil  forespent,  with  waning  powers, 

Forth  from  the  stifling  city-tumult  goes 

In  summer  to  fresh  fields  and  hiils  serene 

For  sure  rejuvenescence  and  repose ;  " 

So  toward  the  Alps  and  upland  breezes  keen, 

The  snows  untroubled  and  the  silver  rills, 

That  death  doth  hide  from  life  in  his  demesne, 

Those  comrades  o'er  the  dew-regenerate  hills 

Went  smiling.     Arm  in  stalwart  arm  enlaced, 

Alike  resplendt  ■.:.,  and  with  wedded  wills. 

They  seemed  twin  Gods,  fraternal  stars  embraced, 

Or  heroes  from  red  slaughter  homeward  bound 

Of  ravening  monsters  in  a  dismal  waste. 

Their  tawny  curls  by  summer  noons  embrowned, 

Their  limbs  athletic,  their  broad  breasts  of  brass, 

With  aureoles  of  the  smiting  sun  were  crowned. 

So,  brushing  diamonds  from  the  glimmering  grass, 

Forth  from  the  fields  they  paced  and  toward  the  shrine 

Of  Pallas  on  the  city-brow  did  pass. 

There  laid  they  down  their  lives ;  there  death  divine 

Made  their  love  perfect  in  the  piety 

They  bore  theii  mother — Bride  of  the  ocean  brine, 

Athens,  the  morning-star  of  liberty. 

Would  that  my  song  could  utter  how  the  hymn 

Swelled  in  their  dying  ears  victoriously  ! 

How  o'er  their  swooning  eyes  with  death-mists  dim 

Swam  the  wild  vision  of  the  wistful  crowd, 

Submiss,  suspense,  straining  each  quivering  limb 

To  greet  with  eyes  aflame  and  blessings  loud, 

With  sobs  and  tears  and  sighs  and  out-stretched  hands,. 

Their  saints,  in  death  gods  evident  avowed  !  >     - 


■i  i 


y,\ 


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'l"l;ti\'*tttit'«  llti<  ittviitlitltlc  Itftilrtur 

0(   hntt^htv  ilri-iW.      Sff.  vott  IIitI  miitti'i  t»vtf 

1li<  llittitttittn  tovrit !      ritr  rtiilnl  llitntr  hm  kwani  blown 

1''lrt<«hr'<  h\<f  nitlil  «tl\  ritjirf  oyrn  titrtt  |t»Tt- 

t'\ttil\  AnMit  ihriv  vont^  ol  hc«m"«,  iimoit  nitil  Mtrwn 

'Vo  (('Oil  (1\«'  \\\\\A  111'  lit i<tk"<  with  rtnv  li|w  ! 

Wt'W  i'\v\^  tito  i'\|>ri(;tttl  itlltlrtr:    li).iltli'itnl  roii«\ 

'iVtt^r  tlti'Ws.  kittt  fittfln'itd,  ipiivitittfi  l\ttm'V  ll|t« 

SttMijihU'ttrM  to  wire  tho  sploitilittn,  prtfjloeye 

■SittotiMrttttn  liko  ntWW  rti«fx  (•  pIrtltiM  ill  tM  li|t«p 

t'Vtt   lV:tt   (Ititl  tltOM'  -swiO   frri  sltntlM  jtitsn  Itiltt  Ity— 

t''i\Mt\  ^inits  likr  ihi^sc  h<>  snti*  tlti>  (Iviit^  sp.ttk, 

V;\ss\ttg  ItxMtt  \^^\\\\  to  jMtlttt  I  otttilttt!»Ilv, 

Shrtll  thttMil  \\\\>\  \\\Atx^n  of  titp  wrti«tp|\tl  iliisk, 

Till,  (\xri1  lv\iM>\l  rtll  iltrttti-?  ox  chftttjtt'  «l  Ift5t, 


N. 


\  "■«-■-■■[-    [I  --|inrii|iiiir-manii|^;jm 


B)iNtt*»:(iAMaw»MMMM 


in\'K  ANI*   IHHAIHt    A    ffVMI'nniHY 


II 


fliifkltitili  lirtHiil  nlifivf'  ilif  i(fii  fril  iifk. 

Vt'ti,  llkr  rt  "ihU,  'Mi-difltH-fl  'liild  rift  lift  VWt 

Alitl  Nlt'l  l-f-rtlinlUK  In  Jlir  lltiifKlrr-lirnl 

Of  rr'fliirlil  K'')i''"<>i'iit<i,  it  mIiiiII  ritit  / 

t»i  •tlfttlniinr y  liiMlif  fiMtii  III*'  Mciif 

«hrt«iiliif.      I  Iwni  (•  |in(i,  M!t«r,  !iii(|  |irlf<«l 

Sliull  klnillf  Mf'CfJM  III  (lt»«  It)  Kfsmiiii  tin'ft. 

I  liiwitfH  IliU  nriciil  w(ir'<lii|i:  frniti  Mic  Kitflt 

I  liiiil  flii-qi*  myq  im«  i'inliitif :   n\  llilt  'ilititu* 

Mliiiiillnn  I  liiil  llif  iiiuiiiii'!  )(»  llifit  fi'imt 

<  M  -([U  tfimiiiinl  liU'iiil  jiinl  Irdlowrd  wiiif, 

niii|)iiinci|  iiiid  linikfii  Iti  fur  illMliuit  (liiyn 

Cm  ll|t<i  )ii  l.iivr-tK  Imly  iiiid  divine. 

Hlt)')i  It  liiMid  In  liMiid  ;    )mJii  |ir,'ii'tc  In  hnn\\\\\\^  \m\'m 

'I'litnituli  nil  tin-  dl/rviiin  Jiffies  (if  till-  d'tiiio! 

Ilr:i|t  liiiiti'l  llMll^ll•l  ii|iMti  llu'  |iil^-d  liiiyn 

or  |tyf(«iiii'  liiirdM  mid  jiiIiIcIm:  bid  tlii'  fM.'itn 

OiilpMiUfd  riftiu  KlfMinliiK  Vll•^^  mid  unldcii  nip 

t.ciip  ill  llvt>  (111-     III'-  Miiil-i  (liiit  (d'"il  '*'*<!  k'"""! 

V'llllll  HilvUI    IIMIMCtH   lift    diy    lipM  In  Hllp 

Klvpr-*  of  iimil  rtiid  rniiikiin  cum*  mid  myrrli  I 

AiImi*  mid  jmIii  (Kir  |)mn|ini  !     <}!(lli'-r  up 

Vniir  skills  nf  vflvfl,  mid  yniir  luiiliiiK  fur  I 

l.fdvf  Itiimd  mid  lied  I      l.civf  liniiic  mid  plenqjifif  lioiisel 

NiiiH'  Itiif  ilii'  lilmii  lii'd  mid  Imic  Imrti  dure  defer 

(tind  sprvlfP  In  i»iir  fierce  K"d  iimoroim.  , 

()li,  lilesMiiijiq  (III  llumn  iieopliyleM  wlioin  lie, 

I'dilli  piK  inn  frdiii  Ilii  ivdty  (Immlier,  lliiii 

Sliull  flml  Willi  prdslrnle  lie.-ul,  willi  pniyiiiK  kneel 

( hiip  tniiie  II  yniilli  Im  'I'lielieM  wllli  eyeq  nflrf^ 

And  Ifivp-ldi  ks  rdiiiid  wliile  lirdwq  liixiiridimly 

Vine  liitleii  :   lu-mli  liii  •miile  (if  «M(iriifiil  ire 

'I'lii'lics'  sIrdiiK  wnlli  iiild  slilvcrinn  s(  rnlli  nf  flmne 

I'led  like  llic  flickeiiiins  df  a  funeral  pyie; 

*ri\p  wiwddiii  of  the  wife  was  lirniiKlit  to  slmtne  ; 

Stiff  necks  of  prnpliets  bnwed  ;   incrrdiildiis  lords, 

Kloiiting  Ills  mysteries,  were  tniif;lit  to  tame 


'• 


It  ly  KK   WALT   WHITMAN. 

Their  heat  of  liardihood  ;  and  swinging  swonls 

Snapped  in  the  hands  of  kings  like  trivial  straw. 

I,o,  with  stuh  recompense  a  god  rewards 

TriflerH  and  tniants  to  his  mystic  law  I 

Now  in  yonr  midst,  yc  n.ilions  I  Love,  a  go<l, 

Arraycil  in  crystal  sheen  without  a  flaw 

Desceiulsl  his  h.)ly  shrine  so  long  tnUrod 

Once  more  he  paces ;  summons  to  his  throne 

Comrades  and  loveks  !     Let  the  out-stretched  rod 

Lead  you  and  gather  to  his  feet  Love's  own  : 

KIsc  shall  it  fall  and  hatter,  fall  anil  bruise 

Princes  and  potentates  in  jirison  thrown  I 

The  poor  will  tiirong  to  greet  him :   as  thick  dews, 

At  night  upon  the  tremulotis  sward  outspread, 

Soar  toward  the  morning  sun,  with  rainbow  hues 

And  mist-wreaths  to  surround  his  royal  head — 

Hy  myriads  and  by  millions  shall  they  rise, 

Salute  their  Saviour,  and  refulgent  tread 

Clear  sapphire  spaces  of  the  irradiate  skies. 

Entwined  with  Love,  their  Lord  ;  embracing  Death, 

Their  friend,  whose  cool  kiss  frees  and  sanctifies; 

The  tempest  of  their  irresistible  breath 

Shall  scatter  crowns  and  kingdoms  ! — I  behold. 

As  one  who  on  a  lone  tower  wearieth 

For  dawning,  even  now  thin  streaks  and  cold 

Divide  yon  dusk  horizon  !     Soon — too  soon 

For  you  bats,  owls,  and  foxes! — broadening  gold 

Shall  drown  the  pale,  night-wandering,  sickly  moon. 


■—■«"-*~rf-'  ■'""'"""'■'■ 


J 
WALT  WHITMAN  AND  HIS  POEMS. 

Bf  WALT  WHITMAN. 


[This  article  nnd  Itic  twu  tlial  r()ll>>w,  written  liy  Walt  Whilman  within 
the  ycnr  followin;;  the  isnuc  of  the  first  edition  of  hiit  |Hien)ii,  expresi  in 
<lelil)ernlc  niicl  ('in|)iiatic  form  ihr  root  einntioiifi  and  conviciionK  out  of  which 
his  booi<  ex|iiuiiled  and  dcvvl<)|iL-d.  Wliitninn  han  rcniarked  to  u»  that  in  a 
period  of  niiHinidcrstandini;  und  nhiixe  tlicir  |iulilicntion  Hccmed  iin|H-r.itive, 
lie  conKonlod  licfurv  liin  death  that  llicy  should  here  ap|)car,  as  they  have 
never  elsewhere  appeared,  under  his  own  nunie.— Tiik  Kihioks.J 

An  Amtirican  bard  at  last  I  One  of  the  rotighs,  large,  proud, 
aflectioJiatc,  eating,  drii^kiiig,  and  breeding,  his  costume  manly 
anil  free,  his  face  sunburnt  and  bearded,  his  postures  strong  and 
erect,  his  voice  bringing  hope  and  jjropliery  to  the  generous  races 
of  young  and  old.  We  shall  cease  shamming  and  be  what  we 
really  are.  We  shall  start  an  athletic  and  defiant  literature.  We 
realize  now  how  it  is,  and  what  was  most  lacking.  The  interior 
American  republic  shall  also  be  declared  free  and  independent. 

For  all  our  intellectual  pco|)le,  followed  by  their  books,  poems, 
novels,  essays,  editorials,  lectures,  tuitions  and  criticisms,  dress 
by  London  and  Paris  modes,  receive  what  is  received  there,  obey 
the  authorities,  settle  disputes  by  the  old  tests,  keep  out  of  rain 
and  sun,  retreat  to  the  shelter  of  houses  and  schools,  trim  their 
hair,  shave,  touch  not  the  earth  barefoot,  and  enter  not  the  sea 
except  in  a  complete  bathing  dress.  One  sees  unmistakably 
genteel  persons,  travelled,  college-learned,  used  to  be  served  by 
servants,  conversing  without  heat  or  vulgarity,  supported  on 
chairs,  or  walking  through  handsomely  carpeted  parlors,  or 
along  shelves  bearing  well-bound  volumes,  and  walls  adorned 
with  curtained  and  collared  portraits,  and  china  things,  and 
nick-nacks.     But  where  in  American  literature  is  the  first  show 

('3) 


\ 


m 


•„   ! 


14 


IN  RE  WALT  WHITMAN. 


of  America?  Where  are  the  gristle  and  beards,  and  broad 
broasts,  and  space,  and  ruggedness,  and  nonchalance,  that  the 
souls  of  the  people  love  ?  Where  is  the  tremendous  outdoors  of 
these  states  ?  Where  is  the  majesty  of  the  federal  mother,  seated 
with  more  than  antique  grace,  calm,  just,  indulgent  to  her  brood 
of  children,  calling  them  around  her.  regarding  the  little  and  the 
large,  and  the  younger  and  the  older,  with  perfect  impartiality? 
Where  is  the  vehement  growth  of  our  cities  ?  Where  is  the  spirit 
of  the  strong  rich  life  of  the  American  mechanic,  farmer,  sailor, 
hunter,  and  miner?  Where  is  the  huge  composite  of  all  other 
nations,  cast  in  a  fresher  and  brawnier  matrix,  passing  adoles* 
cence,  and  needed  this  day,  live  and  arrogant,  to  lead  the 
marches  of  the  world  ? 

Self-reliant,  with  haughty  eyes,  assuming  to  himself  all  the 
attributes-  of  his  country,  steps  Walt  Whitman  into  literature, 
talking  like  a  man  unaware  that  there  was  ever  hitherto  such  a 
production  as  a  book,  or  such  a  being  as  a  writer.  Every  move 
of  him  has  the  free  play  of  the  muscle  of  one  who  never  knew  what 
it  was  to  feel  that  lie  stood  in  the  presence  of  a  superior.  Every 
word  that  falls  from  his  mouth  shows  silent  disdain  and  defiance 
of  the  old  theories  and  forms.  Every  phrase  announces  new  laws ; 
not  once  do  his  lips  unclose  except  in  conformity  with  them. 
With  light  and  rapid  touch  he  first  indicates  in  prose  the  princi- 
ples of  the  foundation  of  a  race  of  poets  so  deeply  to  spring  from 
the  American  people,  and  become  ingrained  through  them,  that 
their  Presidents  shall  not  be  the  common  referees  so  much  as 
that  great  race  of  poets  shall.  He  proceeds  himself  to  exemplify 
this  new  school,  and  set  models  for  their  expression  and  range 
of  subjects.  He  makes  audacious  and  native  use  of  his  own 
body  and  soul.  He  must  recreate  poetry  with  the  elements 
always  at  hand.  He  must  imbue  it  with  himself  as  he  is,  dis- 
orderly, fleshy,  and  sensual,  a  lover  of  things,  yet  a  lover  of  men 
and  women  above  the  whole  of  the  other  objects  of  the  universe. 
His  work  is  to  be  achieved  by  unusual  methods.  Neither  classic 
nor  romantic  is  he,  nor  a  materialist  any  more  than  a  spiritualist. 
Not  a  whisper  comes  out  of  him  of  the  old  stock  talk  and  rhyme 
of  poetry — not  the  first  recognition  of  gods  or  goddesses,  or 


mm 


IBB 


WALT  WHITMAN  AND  Hla  POEyS. 


n 


Greece  or  Rome.  No  breath  of  Europe,  or  her  monarchies  or 
priestly  conventions,  or  her  notions  of  gentlemen  and  ladies, 
founded  on  the  idea  of  caste,  seems  ever  to  have  fanned  his  face 
or  been  inhaled  into  his  lungs. 

The  movement  of  his  verses  is  the  sweeping  movement  of 
great  currents  of  living  people,  with  a  general  government  and 
state  and  municipal  governments,  courts,  comuierce,  manufac- 
tures, arsenals,  steamships,  railroads,  telegraphs,  cities  with  paved 
streets,  and  aqueducts,  and  police,  and  gas — myriads  of  travellers, 
arriving  and  departing — newspapers,  music,  elections,  and  all 
the  features  and   processes  of  the  nineteenth   jentury,  in   the- 
wholesomest  race  and  the  only  stable  forms  of  politics  at  present 
upon  the  earth.    Along  his  words  spread  the  broad  impartialities- 
of  the  United  States.     No  innovations  must  be  permitted  on  the 
stern  severities  of  our  liberty  and  equality.     Undecked  also  is 
this  poet  with  sentimentalism,  or  jingle,  or  nice  conceits,  or 
flowery  similes.     He  appears  in  his  poems  surrounded  by  women 
and  children,  and  by  young  men,  and  by  common  objects  and 
qualities.    He  gives  to  each  just  what  belongs  to  it,  neither  more 
nor  less.     That  person  nearest  him,  that  person  he  ushers  hand 
in  hand  with  himself    Duly  take  places  in  his  flowing  procession, 
and  step  to  the  sounds  of  the  jubilant  music,  the  essences  of 
American  things,  and  past  and  present  events — the  enormous 
diversity  of  temperature,  and  agriculture,  and  mines — the  tribes 
of  red  aborigines — the  weather-beaten  vessels  entering  new  ports,, 
or  making  landings  on  rocky  coasts — the  first  settlements  north- 
and  south — the  rapid  stature  and  impatience  of  outside  control- 
— the  sturdy  defiance  of  '76,  and  the  war  and  peace,  and  the 
leadership  of  Washington,  and  the  formation  of  the  constitution 
— the  union  always  surrounded  by  blatherers  and  always  calm 
and  impregnable — the  perpetual   coming  of  immigrants — the 
wharf-hemmed  cities  and  superior  marine — the  unsurveyed  in- 
terior— the  log-houses  and  clearings,   and  wild    animals  and' 
hunters  and  trappers — the  fisheries,  and  whaling,  and  gold-dig- 
ging— the  endless  gestation  of  new  States — the  convening  of 
Congress  every  December,  the  members  coming  up  from  allti 
climates,  and  from  the  uttermost  parts — the  noble  character  of. 


Xi 


i6 


IN  RE  WALT  WHITMAN. 


the  free  American  workman  and  workwoman — the  fierceness  of 
the  people  when  well  roused — the  ardor  of  their  friendships — the 
large  amativeness — the  equally  of  the  female  with  the  male — 
the  Yankee  swap — the  New  York  firemen  and  the  target  excur- 
sion— the  southern  plantation  life — the  character  of  the  north- 
east and  of  the  northwest  and  southwest — and  the  character  of 
America  and  the  American  people  everywhere.  For  these  the 
old  usages  of  poets  afford  Walt  Whitman  no  means  sufficiently  fit 
and  free,  and  he  rejects  the  old  usages.  The  style  of  the  bard 
that  is  waited  for,  is  to  be  transcendent  and  new.  It  is  to  be 
indirect,  and  not  direct  or  descriptive  or  epic.  Its  quality  is  to 
go  through  these  to  much  more.  Let  the  age  and  wars  (he  says) 
of  other  nations  be  chanted,  and  their  eras  and  characters  be  il- 
lustrated, and  that  finish  the  verse.  Not  so  (he  continues)  the 
great  psalm  of  the  republic.  Here  the  theme  is  creative  and  has 
vista.  Here  comes  one  among  the  well-beloved  stone  cutters, 
and  announces  himself,  and  plans  with  decision  and  science, 
and  sees  the  solid  and  beautiful  forms  of  the  future  where  there 
are  now  no  solid  forms. 

The  style  of  these  poems,  therefore,  is  simply  their  own  style, 
just  born  and  red.  Nature  may  have  given  the  hint  to  the  author 
of  the  "Leaves  of  Grass,"  but  there  exists  no  book  or  fragment 
of  a  book  which  can  have  given  the  hint  to  them.  All  beauty, 
he  says,  comes  from  beautiful  blood  and  a  beautiful  brain.  His 
rhythm  and  uniformity  he  will  conceal  in  the  roots  of  his  verses, 
not  to  be  seen  of  themselves,  but  to  break  forth  loosely  as  lilacs 
on  a  bush,  and  take  shapes  compact,  as  the  shapes  of  melons,  or 
chestnuts,  or  pears. 

The  poems  of  the  "Leaves  of  Grass"  are  twelve  in  number. 
Walt  Whitman  at  first  proceeds  to  put  his  own  body  and  soul 
into  the  new  versification : 


Ij 


"  I  celebrate  myself, 
And  what  I  assume  you  shall  assume, 
For  every  atom  belonging  to  me,  as  good  belongs  to  you." 

He  leaves  houses  and  their  shuttered  rooms,  for  the  open  air. 
He  drops  disguise  and  ceremony,  and  walks  forth  with  the  con- 


WALT  WHITMAN  AND  HIS  POEMS. 


17 


fidence  and  gayety  of  a  child.  For  the  old  decorums  of  writing 
he  substitutes  his  own  decorums.  The  first  glance  out  of  his 
eyes  electrifies  him  with  love  and  delight.  He  will  have  the 
earth  receive  and  return  his  affection  ;  he  will  stay  with  it  as  the 
bridegroom  stays  with  the  bride.  The  cool-breath'd  ground,  the 
slumbering  and  liquid  trees,  the  just-gone  sunset,  the  vitreous 
pour  of  the  full  moon,  the  tender  and  growing  night,  he  salutes 
and  touches,  and  they  touch  him.  The  sea  supports  him,  and 
hurries  him  off  with  its  powerful  and  crooked  fingers.  Dash  me 
with  amorous  wet !  then,  he  says ;  I  can  repay  you. 

The  rules  of  polite  circles  are  dismissed  with  scorn.     Your 
stale  modesties,  he  seems  to  say,  are  filthy  to  such  a  man  as  I. 

*'  I  believe  in  the  flesh  and  the  appetites, 
Seeing,  hearing,  and  feeling,  are  miracles,  and  each  part  and  tag  of  me  is  a 

miracle. 
I  do  not  press  my  finger  across  my  mouth, 

I  keep  as  delicate  around  the  bowels  as  around  the  head  and  heart. 
Copulation  is  no  more  rank  to  me  than  death  is." 


No  skulker  or  tea-drinking  poet  is  Walt  Whitman.  He  will 
bring  poems  to  fill  the  days  and  nights — fit  for  men  and  women 
with  the  attributes  of  throbbing  blood  and  flesh.  The  body,  he 
teaches,  is  beautiful.  Sex  is  also  beautiful.  Are  you  to  be  put 
down,  he  seems  to  ask,  to  that  shallow  level  of  literature  and 
conversation  that  stops  a  man's  recognizing  the  delicious  pleas- 
ure of  his  sex,  or  a  woman  hers  ?  Nature  he  proclaims  inherently 
clean.  Sex  will  not  be  put  aside ;  it  is  a  great  ordination  of  the 
universe.  He  works  the  muscle  of  the  male  and  the  teeming 
fibre  of  the  female  throughout  his  writings,  as  wholesome  realities, 
impure  only  by  deliberate  intention  and  effort.  To  men  and 
women  he  says,  You  can  have  healthy  and  powerful  breeds  of 
children  on  no  less  terms  than  these  of  mine.  Follow  me,  and 
there  shall  be  taller  and  richer  crops  of  humanity  on  the  earth. 

Especially  in  the  "  Leaves  of  Grass  "are  the  facts  of  eternity 
and  immortality  largely  treated.  Happiness  is  no  dre  n,  and 
perfection  is  no  dream.  Amelioration  is  my  lesson,  he  says  with 
calm  voice,  and  progress  is  my  lesson  and  the  lesson  of  all  things. 


x8 


IN  RE   WALT  WHITMAN. 


Then  his  persuasion  becomes  a  taunt,  and  his  love  bitter  and 
compulsory.  VVith  strong  and  steady  call  he  addresses  men. 
Come,  he  seems  to  say,  from  thft  midst  of  all  that  you  have  been 
your  whole  life  surrounding  yourself  with.  Leave  all  the 
preaching  and  teaching  of  others,  and  mind  only  these  words 
of  mine.  •       '  • 


"  Long  enough  h.ivc  you  dreamed  contemptible  dreams, 
Now  I  wash  the  gum  from  your  eyes, 

You  must  habit  yourself  to  the  dazzle  of  the  light  and  of  every  moment  of 
your  life. 

Long  have  you  timidly  waded,  holding  a  plank  by  the  shore, 
Now  I  will  you  to  be  a  bold  swimmer, 

To  jump  off  into  the  midst  of  the  sea,  and  rise  again  and  nod  to  me  anil 
shout,  and  laughingly  dash  with  your  hair. 

I  am  the  teacher  of  athletes, 

He  that  by  me  spreads  a  wider  breast  than  my  own  proves  the  width  of  my 

own, 
He  most  honors  my  style  who  learns  under  it  to  destroy  the  te.iclier. 

The  boy  I  love,  the  same  becomes  a  man  not  through  derived  power  but  in 

his  own  right, 
Wicked,  ratiier  than  virtuous  out  of  conformity  or  fear, 
Fond  of  his  sweetheart,  relishing  well  his  ste.ik, 
Unrequited  love  or  a  slight  cutting  him  worse  than  a  wound  cuts. 
First  race  to  ride,  to  fight,  to  hit  the  bull's  eye,  to  sail  a  skiff,  to  sing  a  song, 

or  play  on  the  banjo. 
Preferring  scars  and  faces  pitted  with  small  pox  over  all  latherers  and  those 

th.nt  keep  oui  of  the  sun. 

I  te.ich  str.iying  from  me,  yet  who  can  stray  from  me  ? 
I  follow  you  whoever  you  are  from  the  present  hour; 
My  words  itch  at  your  ears  till  you  understand  them. 

I  do  not  say  these  things  for  a  dollar,  or  to  fill  up  the  time  while  I  wait  for 
a  boat; 

It  is  you  talking  just  as  much  as  myself I  act  as  the  tongue  of  youi 

It  was  tied  in  your  mouth in  mine  it  begins  to  be  loosened. 

I  swear  I  will  never  mention  love  or  death  inside  a  house, 
And  I  swear  I  never  will  translate  myself  at  all,  only  to  him  or  her  who 
privately  stays  with  me  in  the  open  air." 


WALT   WHITMAN  AND  HIS  POFJIS. 


19 


every  moment  of 


The  eleven  other  poems  have  each  distinct  purposes,  curiously 
veiled.  Theirs  is  no  writer  to  be  gone  through  with  in  a  day  or 
a  month.  Rather  it  is  his  pleasure  to  elude  you  and  provoke  you 
for  deliberate  purposes  of  his  own. 

Doubtless  in  the  scheme  this  man  has  built  for  himself,  the 
writing  of  poems  is  but  a  proportionate  part  of  the  whole.  It  is 
plain  that  public  and  private  performance,  politics,  love,  friend- 
ship, behavior,  the  art  of  conversation,  science,  society,  the 
American  people,  the  reception  of  the  great  novelties  of  city  and 
country,  all  have  their  equal  call  upon  him,  and  receive  equal 
attention.  In  politics  he  could  enter  with  the  freedom  and 
reality  he  shows  in  poetry.  His  scoi)e  of  life  is  the  amplest  of 
any  yet  in  philosophy.  He  is  the  true  spiritualist.  He  recog- 
nizes no  annihilation,  or  death,  or  loss  of  identity.  He  is  the 
largest  lover  and  sympathizer  that  has  appeared  in  literature. 
He  loves  the  earth  and  sun  and  the  animals.  He  does  not  sep- 
arate the  learned  from  the  unlearned,  the  northerner  from  the 
southerner,  the  white  from  the  black,  or  the  native  from  the  im- 
migrant just  landed  at  the  wharf.  F>ery  one,  he  seems  to  say, 
appears  excellent  to  me ;  every  employment  is  adorned,  and 
every  male  and  female  glorious.  •         .     ;    .      . 


itherers  and  those 


:  while  I  wait  for 


him  or  her  who 


"  The  press  of  my  foot  to  the  earth  springs  a  hundred  affections, 
They  scorn  the  best  I  can  do  to  relate  tliem, 

I  am  enamored  of  growing  outdoors,  ... 

Of  men  that  live  among  cattle,  or  taste  of  the  ocean  or  woods, 

Of  the  builders  and  steerers  of  ships,  of  the  wielders  of  axes  and  mauls,  of 

the  drivers  of  horses, 
I  can  eat  and  sleep  with  them  week  in  and  week  out. 

What  is  commonest,  and  cheapest,  and  nearest,  and  easiest,  is  me, 
Me  going  in  for  my  chances,  spending  for  vast  returns, 
Adorning  myself  to  bestow  myself  on  the  first  that  will  take  me, 
Not  asking  the  sky  to  come  down  to  my  goodwill. 
Scattering  it  freely  forever." 

If  health  were  not  his  distinguishing  attribute,  this  poet  would' 
be  the  very  harlot  of  persons.  Right  and  left  he  flings  his  arms, 
drawing  men  and  women  with  undeniable  love  to  his  close  era- 


i:y 


m 


WHill^niftta-  m'  i;'^ 


ao 


irr  liE  WALT  wniTSfAS. 


brace,  loving  the  clasp  of  their  hands,  the  touch  of  their  necks 
and  breasts,  and  the  sound  of  their  voices.  All  else  seems  to 
burn  up  under  his  fierce  affection  for  persons.  Politics,  religions, 
institutions,  art,  (luickly  fall  aside  before  them.  In  the  whole 
universe,  he  says,  1  see  nothing  more  divine  than  human  souls. 

"  Whrn  the  psalm  singR  instead  of  the  slnjjer, 

When  the  Ncript  preaches  tiistcnil  of  the  ])rencher, 

When  the  (utlpit  descends  and  goes,  instead  »{  the  carver  that  carved  the 
Rupportinj;  desk, 

When  the  sacvcd  vessels  or  tlie  bits  of  the  cutharist,  or  the  tath  and  plast, 
])roorerttc  as  ctTccuially  as  tlie  younj;  silversntiths  or  takers,  or  the 
niasons  in  tlieir  overalls, 

"When  a  university  course  convinces  like  a  slund)ering  woman  ond  chihl 
Convince, 
.   AVhen  the  minted  goKl  in  the  vault  smiles  like  the  ni|{ht-watchman's  daugh- 
ter, 

'\Vhen  warrantee  deeds  luafc  in  chaiis  opposite  and  arc  my  friendly  com- 
panions, 

1  intend  to  reach  them  my  hand  and  make  as  much  of  them  as  I  make  of 
men  and  women." 

Who  then  is  that  insolent  unknown?  Who  is  it,  praising 
hiuisolf  as  if  others  were  not  fit  to  do  it,  and  coming  rough  and 
unhidden  among  writers,  to  unsettle  what  was  settled,  and  to 
revolutionize  in  fict  our  modern  civilization  ?  Walt  Whitinan 
was  born  on  Long  Island,  on  the  hills  about  thirty  miles  from 
the  greatest  American  city,  on  the  last  day  of  May,  1819,  and 
has  grown  up  in  Brooklyn  and  New  York  to  be  thirty-six  years 
old,  t'j  enjoy  perfect  health,  and  to  understand  his  country  and 
its  spirit. 

Interrogations  more  than  this,  and  that  will  not  be  put  off  un- 
answered, spring  continually  through  the  perusal  of  "  Leaves  of 
Grass:" 

Must  not  the  true  American  poet  indeed  absorb  all  others,  and 
present  a  new  and  fiir  more  atiiple  and  vigorous  type? 

Has  not  the  time  arrived  for  a  school  of  live  writing  and  tui- 
tion consistent  with  the  principles  of  these  poems?  consistent 
with  the  free  spirit  of  this  age,  and  with  the  American  truths  of 


WALT   WHITMAN  AND  HIS  POEMS. 


at 


t  carved  the 


politics?  consistent  with  geology,  and  astronomy,  and  phrenol- 
ogy, and  human  physfology  ?  consistent  with  the  sublimity  of 
immortality  and  the  directness  of  common  sense? 

If  in  this  poem  the  United  States  have  found  their  poetic  voice 
and  taken  measur  and  form,  is  it  any  more  than  a  bcj  nning? 
Walt  Whitman  himself  disclaims  singularity  in  his  work,  and 
announc  es  the  coming  after  him  of  great  successions  of  poets, 
and  that  he  but  lifts  his  finger  to  give  the  signal. 

Was  he  not  needed  ?  Has  not  literature  been  bred  in-and-in 
long  enough?     Has  it  not  become  unbearably  artificial  ? 

Shall  a  man  of  faith  and  practice  in  the  simplicity  of  real 
things  be  called  eccentric,  while  every  disciple  of  the  fictitious 
school  writes  without  question  ? 

Shall  it  still  be  the  amazement  of  the  light  and  dark  that 
freshness  of  expression  is  the  rarest  (piality  of  all? 

You  have  come  in  good  time,  Walt  Whitman  I  In  opinions, 
in  manners,  in  costumes,  in  books,  in  the  aims  and  occupancy 
of  life,  in  associates,  in  poems,  conformity  to  all  unnatural  and 
tainted  customs  i)asses  without  remark,  while  perfect  naturalness, 
health,  faith,  self-reliance,  and  all  primal  expressions  of  the 
manliest  love  and  friendship,  subject  one  to  the  stare  and  con- 
troversy of  the  world. 


I 


'  i 


(22) 


An  ulil  mnti  once  «nw  I, 

Howfil  low  v/nn  he  willi  lime, 

lIciut-fioH'.cil,  white  willt  rime, 

Ki-mly  mill  lipc  Id  dlo. 

I'pmi  n  ctid  he  Moml 

Al)i)vp  llip  son'n  umcst  j 

His  lioanl  liioKf  nn  Iiir>  hreait 

1(1  vfiiernlilc  \U»u\. 

And  Miili'cniy  ilii-ic  cnme 

Jiom  far  with  niry  ircnd 

A  maiden  round  who-^c  bond 

Tlipro  Innncd  n  wrrnlli  of  llnmr. 

Ah  <;od!   Hut  nhp  was  fair  I 

To  look  were  to  disdain 

All  other  joy  and  pain. 

Anil  lovL-  hor  to  despair. 

••  [  come,"  nhc  cried,  in  tone 

like  swceioM  siren  son^. 

"  ■I'lioiiuli  I  have  tarried  long, 

1  CDinc,  my  own,  my  own  ! 

See.  t.ove,  'tis  love  compels 

These  kisses,  piioeless.  rare; 

Come,  let  n»e  crown  thy  hair 

With  wreathM  imn;orlelles." 

The  olil  man  answered  herj 

His  voice  was  like  the  sen : 

«'  Conjcst  to  mock  at  ine  ? 

Mine  eyes  are  all  aldurr. 

Thou  art  loo  late.     In  sooth 

Naught  earthly  makes  me  ^,dad. 

Where  wert  thou  in  my  mad, 

My  caijer,  (iery  youth  ?  " 

"  Nay.  frrieve  not  thou,"  she  said, 

"  I'or  I  have  loved  full  oft, 

And  at  my  lover»  scoffed, 

Alive  to  woo  them  dead." 

"  ( )h  liend  !  "  I  eried.  "  for  nh-xme  I  " 

Yielding  to  wrath's  surprise. 

She  turned.     I  knew  the  eyes 

And  siren  face  of  l'an\e. 


LEAVES  OF  GRASS:    A  VOLUME  OF  POEMS 
JUST   PUBLISHED. 


liy    WM.I    Will t MAN. 


To  give  jiulgmeiit  on  real  poems,  one  needs  an  nr.rotint  of  the 
poet  himself.  Very  devilish  to  some,  and  very  divine  to  some, 
will  appear  the  ))oel  of  these  new  poems,  the  "  Leaves  of 
drass;"  an  attem|)t,  as  they  are,  of  a  naive,  masculine,  affec- 
tionate, contemplative,  sensual,  imperious  person,  to  cast  into 
literature  not  only  his  own  grit  and  arrogance,  but  his  own  flesh 
and  form,  imdraped,  regardless  of  models,  regardless  of  modesty 
or  law,  and  ignorant  or  silently  scornful,  as  at  first  appears,  of 
all  except  his  own  presence  and  experience,  and  all  outside  the 
fiercely  loved  land  of  his  birth,  and  the  birth  of  his  parents,  and 
their  parents  for  several  generations  before  him.  Politeness  this 
man  has  none,  and  regulation  he  has  none.  A  rude  child  of  the 
jjcople  I — No  imitation — No  foreigner — but  a  growth  and  idiom 
of  America.  No  discontented — a  careless  slouch,  enjoying  to- 
day. No  dilettante  democrat — a  man  who  is  art-and-part  with 
tlie  commonalty,  and  with  immediate  life — loves  the  streets — 
loves  the  docks — loves  the  free  rasping  talk  of  men- -likes  to  be 
called  by  his  given  name,  and  nobody  at  all  need  Mr.  him — can 
laugh  with  laughers — likes  the  ungenteel  ways  of  laborers — is  not 
prejudices  one  mite  against  the  Irish — talks  readily  with  them — 
talks  readily  with  n'^'gers — docs  not  make  a  stand  on  being  a 
gentleman,  nor  on  learning  or  manners — eats  cheap  fare,  likes 
tiie  strong  flavored  coffee  of  the  coffee-stands  in  the  market,  at 
sunrise — likes  a  supper  of  oysters  fresh  from  the  oyster-smack — 
likes  to  make  one  at  the  crowded  table  among  sailors  and  work- 
people— would  leave  a  select  soiree  of  elegant  people  any  time 
to  go  with  tumultuous  men,  roughs,  receive  their  caresses  and 

(23)       '■ 


fil 


Iv: 


oaiMMwNMaqMRnMur'riaAtM^':? 


•4 


IN  RK   WALT  WHITMAN. 


V 


welcome,  listen  to  their  noise,  oaths,  smut,  fluency,  laughter, 
repartee — and  can  preserve  his  presence  perfectly  among  these, 
and  the  like  of  these.  The  effects  he  produces  in  his  poems  are 
no  effects  of  artists  or  the  arts,  but  effects  of  the  original  eye  or 
arm,  or  tlie  actual  atmosphere,  or  tree,  or  bird.  You  may  feel 
the  unconscious  teaching  of  a  fine  brute,  but  will  never  feel  the 
artificial  teaching  of  a  fine  writer  or  speaker. 

Other  poets  celebrate  great  events,  personages,  romances, 
wars,  loves,  passions,  the  victories  and  power  of  their  country, 
or  some  real  or  imagined  incident — and  ])olish  their  work  and 
come  to  conclusions,  and  satisfy  the  reader.  This  poet  cele- 
brates natural  propensities  in  himself;  and  that  is  the  way  he 
celebrates  all.  He  comes  to  no  conclusions,  and  does  not  satisfy 
the  reader.  He  certainly  leaves  him  what  the  serpent  left  the 
woman  and  the  man,  the  taste  of  the  Paradisaic  tree  of  the 
knowledge  of  good  and  evil,  never  to  be  erased  again. 

What  good  is  it  to  argue  about  egotism  ?  There  can  be  no 
two  thoughts  on  Walt  Whitman's  egotism.  That  is  avowedly 
what  he  steps  out  of  the  crowd  and  turns  and  faces  them  for. 
Mark,  critics !  Otherwise  is  not  used  for  you  the  key  that  leads 
to  the  use  of  the  other  keys  to  this  well-enveloped  man.  His 
whole  work,  his  life,  manners,  friendships,  writings,  all  have 
among  their  leading  purposes  an  evident  purpose  to  stamp  a  new 
type  of  character,  namely  his  own,  and  indelibly  fix  it  and  pub- 
lish it,  not  for  a  model  but  an  illustration,  for  the  present  and 
future  of  American  letters  and  American  young  men,  for  the 
south  the  same  as  the  north,  and  for  the  Pacific  and  Mississippi 
country,  and  Wisconsin  and  Texas  and  Kansas  ana  Canada  and 
Havana  and  Nicaragua,  just  as  much  as  New  York  and  Boston. 
Whatever  is  needed  toward  this  achievement  he  puts  his  hand  to, 
and  lets  imputations  take  their  time  to  die. 

First  be  yourself  what  you  would  show  in  your  poem — such 
seems  to  be  this  man's  example  and  inferred  rebi..e  to  the 
schools  of  poets.  He  makes  no  allusions  to  books  or  writers ; 
their  spirits  do  not  seem  to  have  touched  him ;  he  has  not  a 
word  to  say  for  or  against  them,  c"  their  theories  or  ways.  He 
never  offers  others ;  what  he  continually  offers  is  the  man  whom 


I 


LEA  VES  OF  ORASS. 


•s 


our  Brooklynites  know  so  well.  Of  pure  American  breed,  large 
and  lusty — age  thirty-six  years,  (1855,) — never  once  using  medi- 
cine— never  dressed  in  black,  always  dressed  freely  and  clean 
in  strong  clothes — neck  open,  shirt  collar  flat  and  broad,  coun- 
tenance tawny  transparent  red,  beard  well-mottled  with  white, 
hair  like  hay  after  it  has  been  mowed  in  the  field  and  lies  tossed 
and  streaked — his  physiology  corroborating  a  rugged  phrenol- 
ogy * — a  person  singularly  beloved  and  looked  toward,  especially 
by  young  men  and  the  illiterate — one  who  has  firm  attachments 
there,  and  associates  there — one  who  does  not  associate  with  lit- 
erary people — a  man  never  called  upon  to  make  speeches  at  pub- 
lic dinners — never  on  platforms  amid  the  crowds  of  clergymen, 
or  professors,  or  aldermen,  or  congressmen — rather  down  in  tlie 
bay  with  pilots  in  their  pilot-boat — or  off  on  a  cruise  with  fishers- 
in  a  fishing-smack — or  riding  on  a  Broadway  omnibus,  side  by 
side  with  the  driver — or  with  a  band  of  loungers  over  the  open 
grounds  of  the  country — fond  of  New  York  and  Brooklyn — fond 
of  the  life  of  the  great  ferries — one  whom,  if  you  should  meet, 
you  need  not  expect  to  meet  an  extraordinary  person — one  in 
whom  you  will  see  the  singularity  which  consists  in  no  singular- 
ity— whose  contact  is  no  dazzle  or  fascination,  nor  requires  any 
deference,  but  has  the  easy  fascination  of  what  is  homely  and  ac- 

*"  Phrenological  Notes  on  W.  Whitman,"  by  L.  N.  Fowler,  July,  1849. — 
Size  of  head  large,  23  inches.  Leading  traits  appear  to  be  Friendship,  Sym- 
pathy, Sublimity,  and  Self-Esteem,  and  markedly  among  its  combinations  the 
dangerous  faults  of  Indolence,  a  tendency  to  the  pleasures  of  Voluptuousness, 
and  Alimentiveness,  and  a  certain  reckless  swing  of  animal  will. 

[The  organs  are  marked  by  figures  from  I  to  J,  indicating  their  degrees  of 
development,  I  meaning  very  small,  2  small,  3  moderate,  4  average,  S  full» 
6  large,  and  7  very  large.]  Amativeness,  6;  Thiloprogenitiveness,  6^ 
Adhesiveness,  6;  Inhabitiveness,  6;  Concentraliveness,  4;  Combativeness, 
6;  Destructiveness,  5  to  6;  Alimentiveness,  6;  Acquisitiveness,  4 ;  Secie- 
tiveness,  3;  Cautiousness,  6;  Approbativeness,  4;  Self-Esteem,  6  to  7 ; 
Firmness,  6  to  7 ;  Conscientiousness,  6;  Hope,  4;  Marvellousness,  3  ;  Ven- 
eration, 4;  Benevolence,  6  to  7;  Constructiveness,  5;  Ideality,  5  to  6;  Sub- 
limity, 6  to  7;  Imitation,  5;  Mirthfulness,  $;  Individuality,  6;  Form,  6; 
Size,  6;  Weight,  6;  Color,  3;  Order,  5;  Calculation,  5;  Locality,  6^ 
Eventuality,  6 ;  Time,  3;  Tune,  4;  Language,  S ;  Causality,  5  to  6;  Com- 
parison, 6;  Suavitivcness,  4;  Intuitivenass,  or  Human  Nature,  6. 


t 

J 


i      'Jl 


hi. 


a6 


IN  KK   WALT   WIUTMAS. 


customed — as  of  something  you  knew  before,  and  was  waiting 
for — there  you  have  Walt  Whitman,  the  begetter  of  a  new  off- 
spring out  of  literature,  taking  with  easy  nonchalance  the  chances 
of  its  present  reception,  and,  through  all  misunderstandings  and 
distrusts,  the  chances  of  its  future  reception — preferring  always 
to  8|K*ak  for  himself  rather  than  have  others  speak  for  him. 


AN   ENGLISH   AND   AN   AMERICAN   POET. 


By   HALT  WHITMAN. 


It  is  always  reservc<l  for  second-rate  poems  immediately  to 
gratify.  As  first-rate  or  natural  objects,  in  their  perfect  simplic- 
ity and  proportion,  do  not  startle  or  strike,  but  appear  no  more 
than  matters  of  course,  so  probably  natural  iioctry  does  not,  for 
all  its  being  the  rarest,  and  telling  of  the  longest  and  largest 
work.  The  artist  or  writer  whose  talent  is  to  please  the  con- 
noisseurs of  his  time, -may  obey  the  laws  of  his  time,  and  achieve 
the  intense  and  elaborated  beauty  of  parts.  The  perfect  poet 
cannot  afford  any  special  beauty  of  parts,  or  to  limit  himself  by 
any  laws  less  than  those  universal  ones  of  the  great  masters, 
which  include  all  times,  and  all  men  and  women,  and  the  living 
and  the  dead.  For  from  the  study  of  the  universe  is  drawn  this 
irrefragable  truth,  that  the  law  of  the  reijuisites  of  a  grand  poem, 
or  any  other  complete  workmanshi]),  is  originality,  and  the  ave- 
rage and  superb  beauty  of  the  ensemble.  Possessed  with  this 
law,  the  fitness  of  aim,  time,  persons,  places,  surely  follows. 
Possessed  with  this  law,  and  doing  justice  to  it,  no  poet  or  any 
one  else  will  make  anything  ungraceful  or  mean,  any  more  than 
any  emanation  of  nature  is. 

The  poetry  of  England,  by  the  many  rich  geniuses  of  that 
wonderful  little  island,  has  grown  out  of  the  facts  of  the  English 
race,  tlie  monarchy  and  aristocracy  prominent  over  the  rest,  and 
conforms  to  :he  spirit  of  them.  No  nation  ever  did  or  ever  will 
receive  with  national  affection  any  poets  except  those  born  of  its 
national  blood.  Of  these,  the  writings  express  the  finest  infu- 
sions of  government,  traditions,  faith,  and  the  dependence  or 
independence  of  a  people,  and  even  the  good  or  bad  physiog- 
nomy, and  the  ample  or  small  geography.     Thus  what  very 

(27) 


•  1  i, 

1  i  ,'i     '< 


i 


28 


m  RE  WALT  WHITMAN. 


properly  fits  a  subject  of  the  British  crown  may  fit  very  ill  an 
American  freeman.  No  fine  romance,  no  inimitable  delineation 
of  character,  no  grace  of  delicate  illustrations,  no  rare  picture 
of  shore  or  mountain  or  sky,  no  deep  thought  of  the  intellect,  is 
so  important  to  a  xMn  as  his  opinion  of  himself  is ;  everything 
receives  its  tinge  from  that.  In  the  verse  of  all  those  undoubt- 
edly great  writers,  Shakspere  just  as  much  as  the  rest,  there  is 
the  air  which  to  America  is  the  air  of  death.  The  mass  of  the 
people,  the  laborers  and  all  who  serve,  are  slag,  refuse.  The 
countenances  of  kings  and  great  lords  are  beautiful;  the  coun- 
tenances of  mechanics  are  ridiculous  and  deformed.  What  play 
of  Shakspere,  represented  in  America,  is  not  an  insult  to  Amer- 
ica, to  the  marrow  in  its  bones?  How  can  the  tone  never  silent 
in  their  plots  and  characters  be  applauded,  unless  Washington 
should  have  been  caught  and  hung,  and  Jefferson  was  the  most 
enormous  of  liars,  and  common  persons,  north  and  south,  should 
bow  low  to  their  betters,  and  to  organic  superiority  of  blood  ? 
Sure  as  the  heavens  envelop  the  earth,  if  the  Americans  want  a 
race  of  bards  worthy  of  1855,  ^^^  of  the  stern  reality  of  this  re- 
public, they  must  cast  around  for  men  essentially  different  from 
the  old  poets,  and  from  the  modern  successions  of  jinglers  and 
snivellers  and  fops. 

English  versification  is  full  of  these  danglers,  and  America 
follows  after  them.  Everybody  writes  poetry,  and  yet  there  is 
not  a  single  poet.  An  age  greater  than  the  proudest  of  the  past 
is  swiftly  slipping  away,  without  one  lyric  voice  to  seize  its 
greatness,  and  speak  it  as  an  encouragement  and  onward  lesson. 
We  have  heard,  by  many  grand  announcements,  that  he  was  to 
come,  but  will  he  come? 


"A  mighty  Poet  whom  this  age  shall  choose 
To  be  its  spokesman  to  all  coming  times. 
In  the  ripe  full-blown  season  of  his  soul, 
He  shall  go  forward  in  his  spirit's  strength. 
And  grapple  with  the  questions  of  all  time, 
And  wring  from  them  their  meanings.     As  King  Saul 
Called  up  the  buried  prophet  from  his  grave 
To  speak  his  doom,  so  shall  this  Poet-king 


AJ>r  ENGLISH  AND  AN  AMERICAN  POET.  29 

Call  up  the  dread  past  from  its  awful  grave 

To  tell  him  of  our  future.     As  the  air 

Doth  sphere  the  world,  so  shall  his  heart  of  love — 

Loving  mankind,  not  peoples.     As  the  lake 

Reflects  the  flower,  tree,  rock,  and  bending  heaven, 

Shall  he  reflect  our  great  humanity ; 

And  as  the  young  Spring  breathes  with  living  breath 

On  a  dead  branch,  till  it  sprouts  fragrantly 

Green  leaves  and  sunny  flowers,  shall  he  breathe  life 

Through  every  theme  he  touch,  making  all  Beauty 

And  J'oetry  forever  like  the  stars."         (Alexander  Smith.) 

The  best  of  the  school  of  poets  at  present  received  in  Great  / 
Britain  and  America  is  Alfred  Tennyson.  He  is  the  bard  of 
ennui  and  of  the  aristocracy,  and  their  combination  into  love. 
This  love  is  the  old  stock  love  of  playwrights  and  romancers, 
Shakspere  the  same  as  the  rest.  It  is  possessed  of  the  same  un- 
natural and  shocking  passion  for  some  girl  or  woman,  that 
wrenches  it  from  its  manhood,  emasculated  and  impotent,  with- 
out strength  to  hold  the  rest  of  the  objects  and  goods  of  life  in 
their  proper  positions.  It  seeks  nature  for  sickly  uses.  It  goes 
screaming  and  weeping  after  the  facts  of  the  universe,  in  their 
calm  beauty  and  equanimity,  to  note  the  occurrence  of  itself, 
and  to  sound  the  news,  in  connection  with  the  charms  of  the 
neck,  hair,  or  complexion  of  a  particular  female. 

Poetry,  to  Tennyson  and  his  British  and  American  eleves,  is 
a  gentleman  of  the  first  degree,  boating,  fishing,  and  shooting 
genteelly  through  nature,  admiring  the  ladies,  and  talking  to 
them,  in  company,  with  that  elaborate  half-choked  deference 
that  is  to  be  made  up  by  the  terrible  license  of  men  among  them-, 
selves.  The  spirit  of  the  burnished  society  of  upper-clasf.  Eng- 
land fills  this  writer  and  his  effusions  from  top  to  toe.  Like  that, 
he  does  not  ignore  courage  and  the  superior  qualities  of  men, 
but  all  is  to  show  forth  through  dandified  forms.  He  meets  the 
nobility  and  gentry  half-way.  The  models  are  the  sa^ne  both  to 
the  poei  and  the  parlors.  Both  have  the  same  supercilious  ele- 
gance, both  love  the  reminiscences  which  extol  caste,  both  agree 
on  the  topics  proper  for  mention  and  discussion,  both  hold  the 
same  undertone  of  church  and  state,  both  have  the  same  lan^ 


^ 


30 


IN  RE   WALT   WHITMAN. 


guishing  melancholy  and  irony,  both  indulge  largely  in  persi- 
flage, both  are  marked  by  the  contour  of  high  blood  and  a  con- 
stitutional aversion  to  anything  cowardly  and  mean,  both  accept 
the  love  depicted  in  romances  as  the  great  business  of  a  life  or  a 
poem,  both  seem  unconscious  of  the  mighty  truths  of  eternity 
and  immortality,  both  are  silent  on  the  presumptions  of  liberty 
and  equality,  and  both  devour  themselves  in  solitary  lassitude. 
Whatever  may  be  said  of  all  this,  it  harmonizes  and  represents 
facts.  The  present  phases  of  high-life  in  Great  Britain  are  as 
natural  a  growth  there,  as  Tennyson  and  his  poems  are  a  natural 
growth  of  those  phases.  It  remains  to  be  distinctly  admitted 
that  this  man  is  a  real  first-class  poet,  infused  amid  all  that  ennui 
and  aristocracy. 

Meanwhile  a  strange  voice  parts  others  aside  and  demands  for 
its  owner  that  position  that  is  only  allowed  after  the  seal  of  many 
returning  years  has  stamped  with  approving  stamp  the  claims  of 
the  loftiest  leading  genius.  Do  you  think  the  best  honors  of  the 
earth  are  won  so  easily,  Walt  Whitman  ?  Do  you  think  city 
and  country  are  to  fall  before  the  vehement  egotism  of  your  rec^ 
itative  of  yourself?  f 

"  I  am  the  poet  of  the  body,  . 

And  I  am  the  poet  of  the  soul.  ' 

The  pleasures  of  heaven  are  with  me,  and  the  pains  of  hell  are  with  me, 
The  first  I  graft  and  increase  upon  myself,  the  latter  I  translate  into  a  new 
tongue. 

I  am  the  poet  of  the  woman  the  same  as  the  man, 
And  I  say  it  is  as  great  to  be  a  woman  as  to  be  a  mavi. 
And  I  say  there  is  notliing  greater  than  the  mother  of  men. 

I  chant  a  new  chant  of  dilation  or  pride. 

We  have  had  ducking  and  deprecating  about  enough, 

I  show  that  size  is  only  development." 


It  is  indeed  a  strange  voice  !  Critics  and  lovers  and  readers 
of  poetry  as  hitherto  written,  may  well  be  excused  the  chilly  and 
unpleasant  shudders  which  will  assuredly  run  through  them,  to 
their  very  blood  and  bones,  when  they  first  read  Walt  Whitman's 


AN  ENGLISH  AND  AN  AMERICAN  POET. 


31 


poertis.  If  this  is  poetry,  where  must  its  foregoers  stand  ?  And 
what  is  at  once  to  become  of  the  ranks  of  rhymesters,  melan^ 
choly  and  swallow-tailed,  and  of  all  the  confectioners  and  uphol 
sterers  of  verse,  if  the  tan-faced  man  here  advancing  and  claim- 
ing to  speak  for  America  and  the  nineteenth  hundred  of  the 
Christian  list  of  years,  typifies  indeed  the  natural  and  proper 
bard? 

The  theory  and  practice  of  poets  have  hitherto  been  to  select 
certain  ideas  or  events  or  personages,  and  then  describe  them  in 
the  best  manner  they  could,  always  with  as  much  ornament  as 
the  case  allowed.  Such  are  not  the  theory  and  practice  of  the 
new  poet.  He  never  presents  for  perusal  a  poem  ready-made  on 
the  old  models,  and  ending  when  you  come  to  the  end  of  it; 
but  every  sentence  and  every  passage  tells  of  an  interior  not 
always  seen,  and  exudes  an  impalpable  something  which  sticks  tO' 
him  that  reads,  and  pervades  and  provokes  him  to  tread  the 
half-invisible  road  where  the  poet,  like  an  apparition,  is  striding 
fearlessly  before.  If  Walt  Whitman's  premises  are  true,  then 
there  is  a  subtler  range  of  poetry  than  that  of  the  grandeur  of 
acts  and  events,  as  in  Homer,  or  of  characters,  as  in  Shakspere 
— poetry  to  which  all  other  writing  is  subservient,  and  which 
confronts  the  very  meanings  of  the  works  of  nature  and  com- 
petes with  them.  It  is  the  direct  bringing  of  occurrences  and 
persons  and  things  to  bear  on  the  listener  or  beliolder,  to  re- 
appear through  him  or  her ;  and  it  offers  the  best  way  of  making 
them  a  part  of  him  and  her  as  the  right  aim  of  tl.:  greatest  poet. 

Of  the  spirit  of  life  in  visible  forms — of  the  spirit  of  the  seed 
growing  out  of  the  ground — of  the  spirit  of  the  resistless  motion 
of  the  g.  1)6  passing  unsuspected  but  quick  as  lightning  along  its 
orbit — of  them  is  the  spirit  of  this  man's  poetry.  Like  them  it 
eludes  and  mocks  criticism,  and  appears  unerringly  in  results. 
Thirgs,  facts,  events,  persons,  days,  ages,  qualities,  tumble  pell- 
mell,  exhaustless  and  copious,  with  what  appear  to  be  the  same 
disregard  of  parts,  and  the  same  absence  of  special  purpose,  as 
in  nature.  But  the  voice  of  the  few  rare  and  controlling  critics,, 
and  the  voice  of  more  than  one  generation  of  men,  or  two  gen- 
erations of  men,  must  speak  for  the  inexpressible  purposes  of  na- 


j 

»'^ 

1 

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.'     1 

n  J 

is| 

bb 

H^< 

4 

i 

it 

.    SlIF'  ■; 

i 

1 

T^A^H 

3« 


RE  WALT  WHITMAN. 


ture,  and  for  this  haughtiest  of  writers  that  has  ever  yet  written 
and  printed  a  book.  His  is  to  prove  either  the  most  lamentable 
of  failures  or  the  most  glorious  of  triumphs,  in  the  known  history 
of  literature.  And  after  all  we  have  written  we  confess  our  brain- 
felt  and  heart-felt  inability  to  decide  which  we  think  it  is  likely 
to  be. 


^1 


NOTES  FROM  CONVERSATIONS  WITH 
GEORGE  W.  WHITMAN,  1893:  MOSTLY 
IN   HIS  OWN  WORDS. 


Sy  HORACE  L.  TRAUBEL. 


In  spite  of  what  Walt  may  have  said  to  you,  that  nigligi  pic- 
ture* must  have  been  taken  later  than  1849.  I^  shows  him  pretty 
gray,  to  be  sure.  But  Walt  began  to  get  gray  about  thirty.  I 
should  say  he  always  wore  a  beard.  I  never  remember  his 
shaving. 

Walt  was  very  reticent  in  many  particulars.  For  example,  I 
never  knew  him  to  explain  his  business  projects  or  schemes  of 
any  kind — to  communicate  particulars  of  any  plan  he  may  have  had 
in  hand.  When  he  got  into  the  "Leaves  of  Grass"  affair  he 
seemed  to  devote  everything  to  that.  Do  you  ask  if  he  was 
shiftless?  No:  he  was  not  shiftless — yet  he  was  very  curiously 
deliberate.  I  could  hardly  describe  his  stubborn  reserve,  pa- 
tience. He  got  offers  of  literary  work — good  offers :  and  we 
thought  he  had  chances  to  make  money.  Yet  he  would  refuse 
to  do  anything  except  at  his  own  notion — most  likely  when  ad- 
vised would  say :  "  We  won't  talk  about  that  !  "  or  anything 
else  to  pass  the  matter  off.  I  can  give  you  a  case.  Some  of 
the  proprietors  of  the  Eagle  talked  in  a  way  not  to  suit  him,  and 
he  straightway  started  up  and  left  them.  He  never  would  make 
concessions  for  money — always  was  so.  He  always  had  his  own 
way,  or  took  it.  There  was  a  great  boom  in  Brooklyn  in  tlie 
early  fifties,  and  he  had  his  chance  then,  but  you  know  he  made 
nothing  of  that  chance.     Some  of  us  reckoned  that  he  had  by 

*"  Leaves  of  Grass,"  Pocket  Edition,  1889,  facing  page  I32. 
3  '^li^ 


34 


W  RE  WALT  winnrAX. 


this  neglect  wasted  his  best  opportiiiiity,  lor  no  otiier  etinally 
good  cIkuuo  over  after  appeared. 

Wall  did  not  alwiiys  dress  in  this  present  style.  He  was 
rather  stylislj  when  y<»i"g.  He  started  in  with  his  new  notions 
somewhere  between  1850-55. 

A  goiul  «leai  is  always  said  as  if  to  convict  Walt  of  indecency. 
The  "Children  of  Ailain  "  poems  opened  the  way  for  it.  Yet 
there  never  was  a  wi)rse  err*)r.  Kven  in  early  life  Walt  had  no 
licentions  habits.     Nor  was  he  qualmish,  either. 

One  of  the  greatest  things  about  Walt  was  his  wonderful  calm- 
ness in  trying  times  when  evcrylHidy  else  would  get  excited.  He 
was  always  cool,  never  llurrieil  ;  would  get  mad  but  never  lose 
his  heail  ;  was  never  scareil.  His  relations  with  his  father  were 
always  friendly,  always  gooil.  I  don't  think  his  father  ever 
had  an  idea  what  Walt  was  up  to,  what  he  meant.  To  him, 
like  to  all  the  rest,  Walt  was  a  niyslery. 

On  literary  topics  Walt  was  the  one  to  go  to.  We  never 
doubted  that.  It  was  always  apparent  and  acknowledged.  But 
in  business  the  rest  of  us  were  nearer  the  mark.  We  mixetl  up 
in  busin  -ss  affairs.  He  seemed  \.o  have  a  contempt  for  them. 
Yet  he  was  ipii«~k  and  cute,  too.  I  remember  when  he  went  to 
New  Orleans  ar  started  the  Orstrnt.  The  whole  affair  hap- 
pened just  as  he  uescribed  it.  At  the  theater  or  opera  he  ran 
across  the  moneyed  man  who  was  willing  to  Ixick  him  up,  and 
they  made  the  contract  then  and  there. 

His  association  with  neighbors  and  strangers  was  not  at  that 
jwriod  .so  market!  as  later.  I  dt)  not  mean  that  he  was  not  on 
the  friendliest  terms  with  all.  Only,  he  was  scarcely  so  apt 
to  chime  in — establish  an  acquaintance. 

Although  I  am  asked  that  question,  I  am  confident  I  never 
knew  Walt  to  fall  in  love  with  young  girls  or  even  to  show  them 
markeil  attention.  He  did  not  seem  to  affect  the  girls.  There 
are  many  misconceptions  or  assumptions  of  this  sort  current. 
Why,  you  even  say  that  you  are  told  by  some  one  who  professed 
to  be  his  friend  that  Walt  was  in  those  years  a  sore  discomfort 
to  his  i^arents.  There  is  no  worse  nonsense.  There's  not  a  word 
of  truth  in  it.     Quite  the  opposite.     He  was  clean  in  his  habits. 


»* 


CONVERSATfOm  WITH  GFOnOK  W.  WUiTMAN. 


35 


He  was  forbearing  and  conciliating.  He  was  always  gentle  till 
you  got  him  started — always.  .'I'liat  fisherman  story  they  tell 
about  at  such  lenj,'th  is  all  true.  Some  one  who  was  thoroughly 
informed  nnist  have  written  it  uj).  If  I  am  not  mistaken  Walt 
even  gave  the  fellow  a  devil  of  a  licking  afler  the  trial,  the  ver- 
dict— after  Uie  first  thrashing,  for  which  he  was  arrested.  He- 
was  a  muscular  young  man  at  that  time — very  strong — already  of 
striking  appearance. 

Walt  was  called  Walt  probably  because  his  father  was  Walter.- 
It  was  a  way  we  had  of  separating  them.  He  liked  "Walt" 
and  stuck  to  it. 

I  was  in  Brooklyn  in  the  early  fifties,  when  Walt  came  1)a(k 
from  New  Orleans.  We  all  lived  together.  No  change  soeined 
to  come  over  him :  he  was  the  same  man  he  had  been,  grown 
older  and  wiser.  He  made  a  living  now — wrote  a  little,  worked 
a  little,  loafed  a  little.  He  had  an  idea  that  money  was  of  no 
consequence.  He  was  not  very  practical — the  others  of  us  could 
give  him  points  in  this  direction — but  as  for  the  rest,  we  could 
not  understand  him — we  gave  him  up.  I  guess  it  was  about 
those  years  he  had  an  idea  he  could  lecture.  He  wrote  what 
mother  called  "barrels"  of  lecttires.  We  <lid  not  know  what 
he  was  writing.  He  did  not  seem  more  abstracted  than  usual. 
He  would  lie  abed  late,  and  after  getting  up  would  write  a  few 
hours  if  he  took  the  notion — perhaps  would  go  off  the  rest  of  tlie 
day.  We  were  all  at  work — all  except  Walt.  But  we  knew  he 
was  printing  the  book.  I  was  about  twenty-five  then.  I  saw 
the  book — didn't  read  it  all — didn't  think  it  worth  reading — fin- 
gered it  a  little.  Mother  thought  as  I  did — did  not  know  what 
to  make  of  it.  When  Emerson's  letter  came  he  was  set  up.  That 
was  about  the  first.  I  kept  no  account  of  it.  But  those  fellows 
coming  on  there — Emerson,  Alcott,  Sanborn — aroused  curiosity. 

Abuse  seemed  to  make  no  difference  to  Walt.  He  never 
counselled  with  anybody.  I  do  not  think  he  took  a  word  of  ad- 
vice from  any  one.  This  was  so,  first  and  last.  It  was  in  him 
not  to  do  it — in  his  head,  in  his  heart.  In  such  lines  who  could 
he  take  advice  from?  I  remember  mother  comparing  Hiawatha 
to  Walt's,  and  the  one  seemed  to  us  pretty  much  the  same  n.uddle 


3« 


IN  RE  WALT  WHITMAN. 


\ 


as  the  other.  Mother  said  that  if  Hiawatha  was  poetry,  perhaps 
Walt's  was. 

When  Lord  Houghton  came  I  don't  think  they  had  anything 
but  roast  apples.  I  went  in.  I  remember  the  roast  apples. 
There  the  two  sat  at  the  table  together.  He  was  that  kind — <il- 
together  simple,  informal,  no  matter  who  was  guest.  If  we  had 
dinner  at  one,  like  as  not  he  would  come  at  three:  always  late. 
Just  as  we  were  fixing  things  on  the  table  he  would  get  up  and 
go  round  the  block.  He  was  always  so.  He  would  come  to 
breakfast  wlien  he  got  ready.  If  he  wished  to  go  out  he  would 
go — go  where  he  was  of  a  mind  to — and  come  back  in  his  own 
time. 

Walt  always  paid  his  board.  If  he  had  fifty  dollars  he  would 
give  us  thirty,  even  more.  And  he  always  gave  uy  about  that 
style.  I  never  knew  him  to  wish  to  keep,  to  hoard.  He  was  in 
fact  careless  of  all  that,  too  careless. 

As  for  dissipation  and  women.  I  know  well  enough  that  his 
skirts  were  clean.  I  never  heard  the  least  bit  about  his  doings 
with  women.  Any  charge  that  he  led  a  miscellaneous  life  is 
without  a  bottom.  As  a  young  man  he  was  always  correct  and 
clean  in  his  conversation.  All  those  fellows  intimate  with  Walt, 
at  night,  anywhere,  anytime,  will  tell  you  the  same  thing.  Doc- 
tor Bucke  shows  this  plainly  enough  in  his  book.  That  ought  to 
end  all  talk.  The  same  thing  could  have  been  noticed  in  Walt 
till  the  last.  And  the  stage-drivers,  too,  would  testify  to  the 
same  effect.  Walt  was  always  correct.  I  could  quote  all  sorts 
of  things  from  these  men.  I  supposed  that  thut  question  had 
all  been  settled  years  ago.  They  get  these  ideas  from  writings 
about  '♦  Leaves  of  Grass,"  not  from  Walt  himself — they  infer  them 
all. 

I  do  not  suppose  Walt  drank  at  all  till  he  was  thirty.  John 
Burroughs  and  O'Connor  could  have  told  enough  to  clear  all 
this  up.  There  was  a  party  of  these  men  in  Washington — a 
■whole  group,  all  eminent.  They  were  free,  informal.  There 
■were  O'Connor,  Burroughs,  Eldridge — of  course  Walt.  The 
crowd  used  to  call  themselves  Bohemians.  I  have  no  doubt 
Walt     ould  occasionally  take  a  glass — perhaps  of  beer,  perhaps 


CONVERSATIONS   WITH  GEORGE   W.    WHITMAN. 


37 


of  something  else.  Yet  I  never  saw  him  under  the  influence 
of  liquor  in  my  life.  On  the  contrary  his  care  in  this  respect 
was  a  lesson  for  any  one.  I  don't  remember  to  have  met 
Conway.  He  came  to  the  house  and  mother  would  tell  us 
about  his  visits. 

I  could  not  say  that  Walt  was  fonder  of  me  than  of  the  others 
or  of  any  other.  He  was  fondest  of  Han,  if  he  had  any  prefer- 
ence. He  was  likewise  very  affectionate  towards  Mattie,  Jeff's 
wife.  She  was  practically  the  only  sister  he  had  for  some  time. 
Yes,  Jeff"  and  his  wife  lived  with  us  for  quite  a  spell.  We  had  a 
great  large  house,  twenty-five  by  fifty,  on  Portland  Avenue,  Brook- 
lyn. It  is  there  now.  Walt  grew  to  be  especially  fond  of  Mattie, 
probably  because  she  was  always  there  to  help  mother,  and 
they  thus  came  into  frequent  contact. 

Walt's  hearing  was  very  acute,  especially  at  night.  Noises  in 
the  street  he  would  growl  about.  He  seemed  to  hear  sounds 
others  did  not  hear  or  take  notice  of.  His  sense  of  smell,  too, 
was  remarkable — for  instance,  he  would  catch  the  odor  of  paint 
across  the  street,  and  so  forth.  In  the  matter  of  sight  I  don't 
know  that  he  was  better  than  the  rest.  His  taste  was  simple, 
hardly  to  be  called  refined. 

Fr^m  the  very  beginning  Walt  was  in  every  way  plain,  homely, 
in  his  way  of  living.  Thcie  was" no  deviation  from  this.  I 
never  knew  the  consciousness  of  it  to  embarrass  him. 

I  can  remember  Walt's  card-playing.  That  was  years  and 
years  ago,  when  I  was  a  shaver.  He  was  in  for  that  sort  of  thing 
as  well  as  anybody.  But  he  never  danced.  Still,  he  was  inclined 
towards  vigorous  exercise  and  play.  He  once  had  a  ring  sus- 
pended from  the  ceiling.  The  point  was  to  throw  this  ring  on 
a  hook  driven  in  the  wall.  On  one  occasion  the  prize  was  a 
mince  pie,  or  twenty-five  cents,  and  I  recall  that  I  had  to  go  for 
the  pie.  I  was  part  proprietor  of  the  Long  Islander,  and  it  was 
in  the  office  of  the  paper  that  the  game  was  played. 

Walt  was  not  markedly  sober  or  jolly — could  be  either  one  or 
the  other.  Jeff  was  always  the  jolly  one.  He  was  always  active. 
There  was  never  any  trouble  to  get  along  with  Walt.  He  never 
attempted  to  bully  anybody.     He  would  tell  Lou,  speaking  of 


!l' 


I  I    ; 


f       I 


jS  IN  RK  WALT  WHITMAN. 

me:  "There  was  a  bad  boy  who  grew  to  a  good  man."  He 
was  always  kind — would  do  anything  for  us — showed  no  disposi- 
tion to  browbeat  the  younger  members — seemed  as  if  he  had  us 
in  his  charge.  Now  and  then  his  guardianship  seemed  excessive. 
Sometimes  he  would  talk  with  us,  give  us  good  advice.  His 
opinion  was  not  only  asked  by  the  family,  even  when  he  was 
quite  young,  but  by  neighbors.  We  all  deferred  to  his  judgment 
— looked  up  to  him.  He  was  like  us — yet  he  was  different  from 
us,  too.  These  strangers,  these  neighbors,  saw  there  was  some- 
thing in  him  out  of  the  ordinary. 

Another  point  about  Wait ;  he  never  cared  what  anybody 
thought  of  him,  bad  or  good.  Mother  would  wonder,  "  What 
will  people  think  ?  "  but  he  would  say,  "  Never  mind  what  they 
think."  We  saw  that  Walt  had  different  ways  about  him.  I 
don't  say,  mind  you,  that  we  thought  Walt  greater  than  the 
rest,  but  different. 

I  do  not  remember  his  ever  going  to  church.  His  mother 
went,  but  she  was  not  a  regular  church-goer.  She  .vent  almost 
anywhere.  She  pretended  to  be  a  Baptist.  Father  did  not  go 
to  church  at  all.  They  all  leaned  towards  the  Quakers.  Father 
was  a  great  admirer  of  Ebas  Hicks.  He  would  go  to  hear 
Hicks — did  hear  him  often.  Walt,  too,  as  everybody  knows, 
admired  Elias  Hicks.  That  was  about  all  there  was  of  the 
Quaker  in  him.  I  do  not  remember  that  Walt  went  to  church 
even  in  his  younger  days.  There  were,  of  course,  no  religious 
exercises  or  observances  in  the  family  at  all.  Walt  would  no 
■doubt  go  to  hear  fellows  like  Father  Taylor  and  Hicks,  whom 
he  considered  geniuses,  but  men  like  Spurgeon  or  Beecher  or 
Brooks  he  would  not  go  to  hear,  even  if  the  chance  came  up. 
There  was  something  about  preachers  as  a  rule  which  seemed  to 
repel  him. 

Walt  was  always  a  great  opera-goer,  but  there  was  nothing  in 
opera  for  me.  I  would  go  to  the  Bowery  or  some  other  theater. 
Not  that  he  was  not  friendly  and  all  that.  He  would  often  ask 
me,  but  I  hardly  went  once. 

I  was  not  at  home  when  Emerson  called.     I  do  not  remember 


ju4>g*MJ|MJMjiialftJ^a3i- 

"""'-■■■  ■  ■"■■■■' —    "-AaS^ata^ 


CONVERSATJONR   WITH  OEOROE  W.    WHITMAN.         39 

that  Walt  said  anything  about  Alcott  and  the  others,  though  they 
came  a  number  of  times. 

It  would  be  hard  for  me  to  say  anything  in  connection  with 
his  public  speaking.  I  never  htard  him  speak  at  a  political 
meeting.  In  fiict,  at  the  time  he  was  making  political  speeches  I 
was  too  small.  Besides,  I  rather  think  he  was  then  boarding  in 
New  York — I  don't  think  he  was  at  home. 

When  "Franklin  Evans"  was  published  I  could  not  have 
been  more  than  nine  or  ten  years  of  age.  I  have  heard  it  said 
that  copies  are  scarce — in  fact,  you  are  sa>lng  it  now — but  I 
feel  quite  sure  that  I  have  seen  a  copy  within  the  last  five  or  six 
years.  Yet  I  do  nt  know  of  anybody  who  has  a  c  >py.  Walt 
never  made  anything  of  it  himself.  Probably  there  is  some 
mystery  about  it,  but  it  is  quite  positive  that  Walt  did  not  at 
that  time,  any  more  than  at  any  time  since,  say  anything  to  his 
family  to  indicate  that  he  took  any  pride  in  it.  Quite  the  con- 
trary, in  fact.  He  rather  disliked  or  laughed  at  the  mention 
of  it. 

Walt  had  very  few  books.  He  was  not  a  book  collector.  But 
he  spent  a  good  'iiany  hours  in  the  libraries  of  New  York.  He 
cared  little  for  sport.  As  for  gunning,  he  would  have  nothing  to 
do  with  it.  He  would  fish  now  and  then,  but  was  not  carried 
away  with  it.  He  was  an  old-fashioned  ball-player  and  entered 
into  a  game  heartily  enough. 

Long  age  we  lived  on  a  farm.  Walt  would  not  do  farm  work. 
He  had  things  he  liked  better — school-teaching,  for  instance, 
and  writing.  He  taught  an  ordinary  district  school,  and  only 
continued  at  it  a  year  or  so — perhaps  three  or  four  years.  I  my- 
self went  to  school  to  him.  It  v/as  said  at  the  time  that  Walt 
made  a  very  good  schoolmaster.  His  own  education  was  gained 
in  the  Brooklyn  schools. 

Altogether,  Walt's  life  was  uneventful,  containing  no  startling 
events,  so  far  as  I  know. 

I  think  he  became  a  Republican  when  Fremont  came  up. 
Previous  to  1856  he  was  -c  Free  Soil  Democrat.  In  the  case  of 
slavery  he  was  always  for  the  slave,  but  he  was  not  as  far  ad- 


, 


>f  .V 


40 


I  If  RE   WALT  WHITMAN. 


\ 


vanccd  as  Gcrrit  Smith,  Wendell  Phillips  and  that  claw 
of  men. 

At  the  time  "  Leaves  of  Grass"  was  printed— the  1855  edi- 
tion— Beccher  was  neither  friendly  nor  unfriendly.  Later  on 
Walt  and  he  were  quite  thick. 

I  suppose  I  might  go  on  talking  in  this  way,  but  you  would 
find  in  the  end  that  I  had  not  added  greatly  to  your  information 
about  Walt.  But  some  things  said  here,  simple  and  superfluous 
as  they  may  seem,  should  be  kept  in  mind  and  set  down  as  his- 
tory. For  there  have  been  charges  made  and  doubts  expressed 
on  points  on  which  charges  are  unjust  and  doubts  have  no  ex- 
cuse. And  as  these  are  features  on  which  I  can  speak  by  some 
authority,  my  silence  might  be  construed  as  confession. 


It 


A  WOMAN'S  ESTIMATE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN.* 


By  ANNK  GILCHKIST 


June  3i,  1869. — I  was  calling  on  [Mr.  Madox  Brown]  a  fort- 
night ago,  and  he  put  into  my  hands  your  edition  of  Walt 
Whitman's  poems.  I  shall  not  cease  to  thank  him  for  that. 
Since  I  have  had  it,  I  can  read  no  other  book :  it  holds  me  en- 
tirely spell-bound,  and  I  go  througli  it  again  and  again  with 
deepening  delight  and  wonder. 

June  23. — I  am  very  sure  you  are  right  in  your  estimate  of 

*  LonJon,  Nov.  20,  1869. 

The  great  satisraction  wliich  I  felt  in  arranging,  about  two  years  ago,  the 
first  edition  (or  ralher  selection)  of  Walt  Whitman's  poems  published  in  Eng- 
land hag  been,  in  due  course  of  time,  followed  by  another  satisfaction — and 
one  which,  rightly  laid  to  heart,  is  both  less  mixed  and  more  intense.  A  lady, 
whose  friendship  honors  me,  read  the  selection  last  summer,  and  immedititely 
afterwards  accepted  from  me  the  loan  of  the  complete  edition,  and  read  that 
also.  Doth  volumes  raised  in  her  a  boundless  and  splendid  enthusiasm,  en- 
nobling to  witness.  This  found  pression  in  some  letters  which  she  addressed 
to  me  at  the  time,  and  which  contain  (I  aflirm  it  without  misgiving,  and  I 
hope  not  without  some  title  to  form  an  opinion)  about  the  fullest,  farthest- 
reaching,  and  most  eloquent  appreciation  of  Whitman  yet  put  into  writing, 
and  certainly  the  most  valuable,  whether  or  not  I  or  other  readers  find  cai'se 
for  critical  dissent  at  an  item  here  and  there.  The  most  valuable,  I  say,  be- 
cause this  is  the  expression  of  what  a  woman  sees  in  Whitman's  poems — a 
woman  who  has  read  and  thought  much,  and  whom  to  know  is  to  respect  and 
esteem  in  every  relation,  whether  of  character,  intellect,  or  culture. 

I  longed  that  what  this  lady  had  written  should  he  published  for  the  benefit 
of  English,  and  more  especially  of  American  readers.  She  has  generously 
acceded  to  my  request.  The  ensuing  reflections  upon  Whitman's  poems  con- 
tain several  passages  reproduced  verbatim  from  the  letters  in  question,  sup- 
plemented by  others  which  the  same  lady  has  added  so  as  more  fully  to  define 
and  convey  the  impression  which  those  unparalleled  and  deathless  writings- 
have  made  upon  her.  W.  M.  Ro.ssetti. 

(40 


43 


JN  RE  WALT  WHITMAN. 


Walt  Whitman.  There  is  nothing  in  him  that  I  shall  ever  let  go 
my  hold  of.  For  me  the  reading  of  his  poems  is  truly  a  new 
birth  of  the  soul. 

I  shall  quite  fearlessly  accept  your  kind  offer  of  the  loan  of  a 
complete  edition,  certain  that  great  and  divinely  beautiful  nature 
has  not,  could  not  infuse  any  poison  into  the  wine  he  has  poured 
out  for  us.  And  as  for  what  you  specially  allude  to,  who  so  well 
able  to  bear  it — I  will  say,  to  judge  wisely  of  it — as  one  who, 
having  been  a  happy  wife  and  mother,  has  learned  to  accept  all 
things  with  tenderness,  to  feel  a  sacredness  in  all  ?  Perhaps  Walt 
Whitman  "las  forgotten — or,  through  some  theory  in  his  head, 
has  overridden — the  truth  that  our  instincts  are  beautiful  facts  of 
nature,  as  well  as  our  bodies  j  and  that  we  have  a  strong  instinct 
of  silence  about  some  things. 

July  II. — I  think  it  was  very  manly  and  kind  of  you  to  put 
the  whole  of  Walt  Whitman's  poems  into  my  hands ;  and  that  I 
have  no  other  friend  who  would  have  judged  them  and  me  so 
wisely  and  generously. 

I  h.ifi  not  dreamed  that  words  could  cease  to  be  words,  and 
becomr.  electric  streams  like  these.  I  do  assure  you  that,  strong 
as  y  am,  I  feel  sometimes  as  if  I  had  not  bodily  strength  to  read 
many  of  these  poems.  In  the  series  headed  "  Calamus,"  for  in- 
stance, in  some  of  the  "Songs  of  Parting,"  the  "Voice  out  of 
the  Sea,"  the  poem  beginning  "  Tears,  Tears,"  etc.,  there  is  such 
a  weight  of  emotion,  such  a  tension  of  the  heart,  that  mine  re- 
fuses to  beat  under  it — stands  quite  still — and  I  am  obliged  to 
lay  the  booi;  down  for  a  while.  Or  again,  in  the  piece  called 
"  Wii'C  Whitman,"  and  one  or  two  others  of  that  type,  I  am  as 
one  hurried  th^-  ugh  stormy  seas,  over  high  mountains,  dazed 
with  sunliii'it,  stunned  with  a  crowd  and  tumult  of  faces  and 
voices,  till  I  am  breathltss,  bewildered,  half  dead.  Then  come 
parts  and  whole  poems  in  which  there  is  such  calm  wisdom  and 
strength  of  thought,  such  a  cheerful  breadth  of  sunshine,  that 
the  soul  bathes  in  them  renewed  and  strengthened.  Living  im- 
pulses flow  out  of  these  that  make  me  exult  in  life,  yet  look  long- 
ingly towards  "  the  superb  vistas  of  Death."  Those  who  admire 
this  poem,  and  don't  care  for  that,  and  talk  of  formlessness,  ab- 


A   WOMAN'S  ESTIMATE  OF   WALT  WHITMAN. 


43 


sence  of  meter,  etc.,  are  quite  as  far  from  any  genuine  recogni- 
tion of  Walt  Whitman  as  his  bitter  detractors.  Not,  of  course, 
that  all  the  pieces  are  equal  in  power  and  beauty,  but  that  all  are 
vital ;  they  grew — they  were  not  made.  We  criticise  a  palace 
or  a  cathedral ;  but  what  is  the  good  of  criticising  a  forest  ? 
Are  not  the  hitherto-accepted  masterpieces  of  literature  akin 
rather  to  noble  architecture;  built  up  of  material  rendered  precious 
by  elaboration ;  planned  with  subtle  art  that  makes  beauty  go 
hand  in  hand  with  rule  and  measure,  and  knows  where  the  last 
stone  will  come,  before  the  first  is  laid  ;  the  result  stately,  fixed, 
yet  such  as  might,  in  every  particular,  have  been  different  from 
what  it  is  (therefore  inviting  criticism),  contrasting  proudly  with 
the  careless  freedom  of  nature,  opposing  its  own  rigid  adherence 
to  symmetry  to  her  willful  dallying  with  it  ?  But  not  such  is 
this  book.  Seeds  brought  by  the  winds  from  north,  south,  east, 
and  west,  lying  long  in  the  earth,  not  resting  on  it  like  the 
stately  building,  but  hid  in  and  assimilating  it,  shooting  upwards 
to  be  nourished  by  the  air  and  the  sunshine  and  the  rain  which 
beat  idly  against  that, — each  bough  and  twig  and  leaf  growing  in 
strength  and  beauty  its  own  way,  a  law  to  itself,  yet,  with  all 
this  freedom  of  spontaneous  growth,  the  result  inevitable,  un- 
alterable (therefore  setting  criticism  at  naught),  above  all  things 
vital, — that  is,  a  source  of  ever-generating  vitality :  such  are 
these  poems. 


"  Roots  and  leaves  themselves  alone  are  these, 
Scents  brought  to  men  and  women  from  the  wild  woods  and  from  the  pond- 
side, 
Breast  sorrel  and  pinks  of  love,  fingers  that  wind  around  tighter  than  vines. 
Gushes  from  the  throats  of  birds  hid  in  the  foliage  of  trees  as  the  sun  is  risen, 
Breezes  of  Jand  and  love,  breezes  set  from  living  shores  out  to  you  on  the 

living  sea, — to  you,  O  sailors  ! 
Frost-mellowed  berries  and  Third -month  twigs,  offered  fresh  to  young  per- 
sons wandering  out  in  the  fields  when  the  winter  breaks  up. 
Love-buds  put  before  you  and  within  you,  whoever  you  are, 
'  Buds  to  be  unfolded  on  the  old  terms. 

'  If  you  bring  the  warmth  of  the  sun  to  them,  they  will  open,  and  bring  form, 
.   .  color,  pjrfume,  to  you :  . 


44 


IN  RE   WALT  WHITMAN. 


If  you  become  the  aliment  and  the  wet,  they  will  become  flowers,  fruits^ 
tall  branches  and  trees.*' 

And  the  music  takes  good  care  of  itself  too.  As  if  it  could  be 
otherwise!  As  if  those  "large,  melodious  thoughts,"  those 
emotions,  now  so  stormy  and  wild,  now  of  unfathomed  tender- 
ness and  gentleness,  could  fail  to  vibrate  through  the  words  in 
strong,  sweeping,  long-sustained  chords,  with  lovely  melodies 
winding  in  and  out  fitfully  amongst  them  !  Listen,  for  instance, 
to  the  penetrating  sweetness,  set  in  the  midst  of  rugged  grandeur, 
of  the  passage  beginning, — 

"I  am  he  that  walks  with  the  tender  and  growing  night; 
I  call  to  the  earth  and  sea  half  held  by  the  night." 


r     I 


I  see  that  no  counting  of  syllables  will  reveal  the  mechanism 
of  the  music  j  and  that  this  rushing  spontaneity  could  not  stay  to 
bind  itself  with  the  fetters  of  meter.  But  I  know  that  the  music 
is  there,  and  that  I  would  not  for  something  change  ears  with 
those  who  cannot  hear  it.  And  I  know  that  poetry  must  do  one 
of  two  things, — either  own  this  man  as  equal  with  her  highest, 
completest  manifestors,  or  stand  aside,  and  admit  that  there  is 
some  thing  come  into  the  world  nobler,  diviner  than  herself,  one 
that  is  free  of  the  universe,  and  can  tell  its  secrets  as  none  before. 

I  do  not  think  or  believe  this ;  but  see  it  with  the  same  unmis- 
takable dehniteness  of  perception  and  full  consciousness  that  I  see 
tlie  sun  at  this  moment  in  the  noonday  sky,  and  feel  his  rays 
glowing  down  upon  me  as  I  write  in  the  open  air.  What  more 
can  you  ask  of  the  words  of  a  man's  mouth  than  that  they  should 
"  absorb  into  you  as  food  and  air,  to  appear  again  in  your 
strength,  gait,  face,"— that  they  should  be  "fibre  and  filter  to 
your  blood,"  joy  and  gladness  to  your  whole  nature? 

I  am  persuaded  that  one  great  source  of  this  kindling,  vitaliz- 
ing power — I  suppose  the  great  source — is  the  grasp  laid  upon 
the  present,  the  fearless  and  comprehensive  dealing  with  reality. 
Hitherto  the  leaders  of  thought  have  (except  in  science)  been 
men  with  their  faces  resolutely  turned  backwards ;  men  who  have 
made  of  the  past  a  tyrant  that  beggars  and  scorns  the  present. 


A    WOMAN'S  ESTIMATE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN. 


•; 


hardly  seeing  any  greatness  but  what  is  shrouded  away  in  the 
twilight,  underground  past ;  naming  the  present  only  for  dis- 
paraging comparisons,  humiliating  distrust  that  tends  to  create 
the  very  barrenness  it  complains  of;  bidding  me  warm  myself  at 
fires  that  went  out  to  mortal  eyes  centuries  ago ;  insisting,  in  re- 
ligion above  all,  that  I  must  either  "  look  through  dead  men's 
eyes,"  or  shut  my  own  in  helpless  darkness.  Poets  fancying 
themselves  so  happy  over  the  chill  and  faded  beauty  of  the  past, 
but  not  making  me  happy  at  all, — rebellious  always  at  being 
dragged  down  out  of  the  free  air  and  sunshine  of  to-day. 

But  this  poet,  this  "athlete,  full  of  rich  words,  full  of  joy," 
takes  you  by  the  hand,  and  turns  you  with  your  face  straight 
forwards.  The  present  is  great  enough  for  him,  because  he  is 
great  enough  for  it.  It  flows  through  him  as  a  "  vast  oceanic 
tide,"  lifting  up  a  mighty  voice.  Earth,  "  the  eloquent,  dumb, 
great  mother,"  is  not  old,  has  lost  none  of  her  fresh  charms, 
none  of  her  divine  meanings ;  still  bears  great  sons  and  daugh- 
ters, if  only  they  would  possess  themselves  and  accept  their 
birthright, — a  richer,  not  a  poorer,  heritage  than  was  ever  pro- 
vided before, — richer  by  all  the  toil  and  suffering  of  the  gener- 
ations that  have  preceded,  and  by  the  further  unfolding  of  the 
eternal  purposes.  Here  is  one  come  at  last  who  can  show  them 
how  ;  whose  songs  are  the  breath  of  a  glad,  strong,  beautiful  life, 
nourished  sufficingly,  kindled  to  unsurpassed  intensity  and  great- 
ness by  the  gifts  of  the  present. 

"  Each  moment  and  whatever  happens  thrills  me  with  joy." 

"  O  the  joy  of  my  soul  leaning  poised  on  itself, — recewing  identity  through 
materials,  and  loving  them, — observing  characters,  and  absorbing 
them! 
O  my  soul  vibrated  back  to  me  from  them ! 

O  the  g    "some  saunter  over  fields  and  hillsides ! 

The  leaves  and  flowers  of  the  commonest  weeds,  the  moist,  fresh  stillness 

of  the  woods. 
The  exquisite  smell  of  the  earth  at  daybreak,  and  all  through  the  forenoon. 

O  to  realize  space ! 

The  plenteousness  of  all — that  there  are  no  bounds ; 


-4 

H 

'!■ 

?^**i 

I^^B^ 

III 

46 


IN  HE   WALT  WHITMAN. 


To  emerge,  and  be  of  the  sky-^of  the  sun  and  moon  and  the  flying  clouds, 
as  one  with  them. 

O  the  joy  of  sufliering, — 

To  struggle  against  great  odds,  to  meet  enemies  undaunted, 

To  be  entirely  alone  with  them — to  find  how  much  one  can  stand  !  " 


I  used  to  think  it  was  great  to  disregard  happiness,  to  press  on 
to  a  high  goal,  careless,  disdainful  of  it.  But  now  I  see  that 
there  is  nothing  so  great  as  to  be  capable  of  liappiness ;  to  pluck 
it  out  of  "each  moment  and  whatever  happens;  "  to  find  that 
one  can  ride  as  gay  and  buoyant  on  the  angry,  menacing,  tumul- 
tuous waves  of  life  as  on  those  that  glide  and  glitter  under  a  clear 
sky ;  that  it  is  no:  iefeat  and  wretchedness  v  uch  come  out  of 
the  storm  of  adversity,  but  strength  and  calni:.;ss. 

See,  again,  in  the  pieces  gatliered  together  under  the  title 
"  Calamus,"  and  elsewhere,  what  it  means  for  a  man  to  love  his 
fellow-man.  Did  you  dream  it  b'  'ore?  These  "  evangel-poems 
of  comrades  and  of  love"  speak,  with  the  abiding,  penetrati'"q; 
power  of  prophecy,  of  a  "new  and  superb  friendship;  "  spt  .k 
not  as  beautiful  dreams,  unrealizable  aspirations  to  be  laid  aside 
in  sober  moods,  because  they  breathe  out  what  now  glows  within 
the  poet's  own  breast,  and  flows  out  in  action  toward  the  men 
around  hiin.  Had  ever  any  land  before  her  poet,  \:H  only  to 
concentrate  within  himself  her  life,  and,  when  she  kindled  with 
anger  against  her  children  who  were  treacherous  to  the  cause 
her  life  is  bound  up  with,  to  announce  and  justify  her  terrible 
purpose  in  words  of  unsurpassable  grandeur  (as  in  the  poem  be- 
ginning, "Rise,  O  days,  from  your  fathomless  deeps"),  but 
also  to  go  and  with  his  own  hands  dress  the  wounds,  with  his 
powerful  presence  soothe  and  sustain  and  nourish  her  suffering 
soldiers, — hundreds  of  them,  thousands,  tens  of  thousands, — by 
day  and  by  night,  for  weeks,  months,  years? 


I  i 


•'  I  sit  by  the  restless  all  the  dark  night ;  some  are  so  young. 
Some  suffer  so  much  :  I  recall  the  experience  sweet  and  sad. 
Many  a  soldier's  loving  arms  about  this  neck  have  crossed  and  rested,. 
Many  a  soldier's  kiss  dwells  on  these  bearded  lips : — " 


ng  clouds. 


A   WOMAK'S  ESTIMATE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN. 


47- 


Kisses,  that  touched  with  the  fire  of  a  strange,  new,  undying 
eloquence  the  lips  that  received  them  I  The  most  transcendent 
genirs  could  not,  untaught  by  that  "experience  sweet  and  sad," 
have  breathed  out  hymns  for  the  dead  soldiers  of  such  ineffably 
tender,  soriowful,  yet  triumphant  beauty. 

But  the  present  spreads  before  us  other  thing-  besides  those  of 
which  it  is  easy  to  see  the  greatness  and  beauty  ;  and  the  poel 
would  leave  us  to  learn  tlie  iiardest  part  of  our  lesson  unhelped 
if  he  took  no  heed  of  these;  and  would  be  unfaithful  to  his' 
calling,  as  interpreter  of  man  to  himself  and  of  the  scheme  of 
things  in  relation  to  him,  if  he  did  not  accept  all — if  he  did  not 
teach  "  the  great  lesson  of  reception,  neither  preference  nor  de- 
nial." If  ht  feared  to  stretch  out  the  hand,  not  of  condescend- 
ing pity,  but  of  fellowship,  to  the  degraded,  criminal,  foolish, 
despised,  knowing  that  they  are  only  laggards  in  "  the  great 
procession  winding  along  the  roads  of  the  universe,"  "the  far- 
behind  to  come  on  in  their  turn,"  knowing  the  "amplitude  of 
Time,"  how  could  he  roll  the  stone  of  contempt  off  the  heart  as 
he  does,  and  cut  the  strangling  knot  of  the  problem  of  inherited; 
viciousness  and  degradation?  And,  if  he  were  not  bold  and 
true  to  the  utmost,  and  did  not  own  in  himself  the  threads  of 
darkness  mixed  in  with  the  threads  of  light,  and  own  it  with  i'ne- 
same  strength  and  directness  that  he  tells  of  the  light,  and  not 
in  those  vague  generalities  that  everybody  uses,  and  nobody 
means,  in  speaking  on  this  head, — in  the  worst,  germs  of  all  that 
is  in  the  best ;  in  the  best,  germs  of  all  that  is  in  the  worst, — the- 
brotherhood  of  the  human  race  would  be  a  mere  flourish  of 
rhetoric.  And  brotherhood  is  naught  if  it  does  not  bring 
brother's  love  along  with  it.  If  the  poet's  heart  were  not  "a 
measureless  ocean  of  love  "  that  seeks  the  lii)s  and  would  quench 
the  thirst  of  all,  he  were  not  the  one  we  have  waited  for  so  long. 
Who  but  he  could  put  at  last  the  right  meaning  into  that  word 
"  democracy,"  which  has  been  made  to  bear  such  a  burthen  of 
incongruous  notions  ?  — 

"  By  God !  I  will  accept  nothing  that  all  cannot  have  their  counterpart  of  on> 
the  same  terms !  "  — 


ii. 


-Ill 


: 


48 


jy  RK  WALT  WHITMAN. 


fl.islung  it  forth  like  a  banner,  making  it  draw  the  instant  alle» 
giance  of  every  man  and  woman  who  loves  justice.  All  occupa- 
tions, however  homely,  all  developments  of  the  activities  of 
man,  need  the  poet's  recognnion,  bct-ause  every  man  needs  the 
assurance  that  for  him  also  the  materials  out  of  which  to  build 
up  a  great  and  satisfying  life  lie  to  hand,  the  sole  magic  in  the 
use  of  them,  all  of  the  right  stuff  in  the  right  hands.  Hence 
those  patient  enumerations  of  every  conceivable  kind  of  in- 
dustry : — 

"  In  thcin  far  more  than  you  estimated — in  them  fnr  less  alto." 

Far  more  as  a  means,  next  to  nothing  as  an  end  ;  whereas  we  are 
wont  to  take  it  the  other  way,  and  think  the  result  something, 
but  :lie  nieans  a  weariness.  Out  of  all  come  strength,  and  the 
cheorfilness  of  strength.  I  murmured  not  a  little,  to  say  the 
truth,  under  these  enumerations,  at  first.  But  now  I  think  that 
not  only  is  their  purpose  a  justification,  but  that  the  musical  ear 
and  vividness  of  perception  of  tiio  poet  have  enabled  him  to  per- 
form this  task  also  with  strength  and  grace,  and  that  they  are 
harmonious  as  well  as  necessary  parts  of  the  great  whole. 

Nor  do  I  sympathize  with  those  who  grumble  at  the  unex- 
pected words  that  turn  up  now  and  then.  A  tpiarrel  with  words 
is  always,  more  or  les"  a  quarrel  with  meanings;  and  here  we 
are  to  be  as  genial  and  as  wide  as  nature,  and  quarrel  with  noth- 
ing. If  the  thing  a  word  stands  for  exists  by  divine  appointment 
(and  what  does  not  so  exist  ?).  the  word  need  never  be  ashamed 
of  itself;  the  shorter  and  more  direct,  the  better.  It  is  a  gain  to 
make  friends  with  it,  and  see  it  mi  good  company.  Fere,  at  all 
events,  "  poetic  diction"  wouid  not  serve, — not  p'etty,  soft, 
colorless  words,  laid  by  in  lavender  for  the  special  use;  of  poetry, 
that  have  had  none  of  tl.e  wear  an<l  tear  of  daily  life;  but  such 
as  have  stood  most,  as  teli  of  himian  heart-beats,  as  fit  closest  to 
the  sense,  and  have  taken  d'^p  hues  of  association  from  the 
varied  experiences  of  life — those  are  the  words  wanted  here. 
We  only  ask  to  seize  and  be  seized  swiftly,  overmasteringly,  by 
the  great  meanings.  We  see  with  the  eyes  of  the  soul,  listen 
with  the  ears  of  the  soul ;  the  poor  old  words  that  have  served 


BO  many 
become 
regencra 
that  the 
mellifluo 
and  heal 
every  ho 
corn  in  t 
Out  of 
the  larg( 
great  ant 
the  ttows 
beautiful 

"  I  know  1 
I  ivnow  I 
1  know  1 
I  know  I 
I  do  not 

*'  My  fonth 
I  lau|;l>  t 
And  I  ki 

"  No  array 

You  ai^ 
by  any  o: 
even  for  i 
men  had 
the  deptl 
become  c 
out  of  h 
hand,  by 
himself, 
poor  imi 
pride,  tli 
pride,  h( 
it  will  n( 
"  the  di 
4 


A    WOMAN'S  KSTlltfATK  OF   WALT   WHITMAN. 


49 


80  many  generations  for  purposes,  good,  bad,  and  indifferent,  and 
become  warped  and  blurred  in  the  process,  grow  young  again, 
regenerate,  translucent.  It  is  not  mere  deligiit  they  give  us,— 
//la/ the  "sweet  singers,"  with  tlieir  subtly  wrought  gifts,  their 
mellifluous  speech,  can  give  too  in  their  degree;  it  is  such  life 
and  health  as  enable  us  to  pluck  delights  for  ourselves  out  of 
every  hour  of  the  day,  and  taste  the  sunshine  that  ripened  the 
corn  in  the  crust  we  eat  (I  often  seem  to  myself  to  do  that). 

Out  of  the  scorn  of  the  present  came  skepticism ;  and  out  of 
the  large,  loving  acceptance  of  it  comes  faith.  If  fio7v  is  so 
great  and  beautiful,  I  need  no  arguments  to  make  me  believe  that 
the  fimvs  of  the  past  and  of  the  future  were  and  will  be  great  and 
beautiful  too. 

•'  I  know  1  am  dcatlileiii.  • 

I  know  this  orbit  of  mine  cannot  be  swept  by  n   carpenter's  compass. 
I  know  I  shall  not  pass  like  a  child's  carlacue  cut  with  a  burnt  stick  at  night. 
I  know  I  am  au(;u<il, 
1  do  not  trouble  my  spirit  to  vindicate  itself  or  be  understood." 

"  My  foothold  is  tenon'd  and  mortii'd  in  granite  : 
I  laugh  at  what  you  call  dissolution, 
And  I  know  the  amplitude  of  time." 

"  No  array  of  terms  can  say  how  much  I  am  at  peace  about  God  and  death." 

You  argued  rightly  that  my  confidence  would  not  be  betrayed 
by  any  of  the  poems  in  this  book.  None  of  them  troubled  me 
even  for  a  moment ;  because  I  saw  at  a  glance  that  it  was  not,  as 
men  had  supposed,  the  heights  brought  down  to  the  depths,  but 
the  depths  lifted  up  level  with  the  sunlit  heights,  that  they  might 
become  clear  and  sunlit  too.  Always,  for  a  woman,  a  veil  woven 
out  of  her  own  soul — never  touched  upon  even,  with  a  rough 
hand,  by  this  poet.  But,  for  a  man,  a  daring,  fearless  pride  in 
himself,  not  a  mock-modesty  woven  out  of  delusions — a  very 
poor  imitation  of  a  woman's.  Do  they  not  see  that  this  fearless 
pride,  this  complete  acceptance  of  themselves,  is  needful  for  her 
pride,  her  justification  ?  What !  is  it  all  so  ignoble,  so  base,  that 
it  will  not  bear  the  honest  light  of  speech  from  lips  so  gifted  with 
"the  divine  power  to  use  words?"     Then  what  hateful,  bitter 


,,    5 


50 


tX  UK   WALT   n-HITMAX. 


hnmili.ition  for  her,  to  have  to  give  hcrsolf  np  to  the  rcnlity  I  Do 
yon  think  there  i«  ever  a  bride  who  does  not  taste  more  or  less 
this  hittt'rness  in  her  cnp?  Ihit  who  pnt  it  there?  It  must 
Rurcly  be  man's  fanlt,  not  (Jod's,  that  she  has  to  say  to  herself, 
"Snnl,  look  another  way — yon  have  no  part  in  this.  Mother- 
hood is  beanfifnl,  fatherhood  is  bcaniifnl ;  l)\it  the  dawn  of  father- 
hood and  motherhood  is  not  bcanlifnl."  Do  they  really  think 
that  (Jod  is  ashatnrd  of  what  he  has  made  and  appointed  ?  And, 
if  not,  surely  it  is  somewhat  superfluous  that  they  should  under- 
take to  be  so  for  him. 

"  The  fiiU-«|>reft(t  pride  of  man  i«  cnlmlng  nml  excellcnf  to  the  sonl,"  —  . 

of  a  woman  above  all.  It  is  true  that  instinct  of  silence  I  spoke 
of  is  a  beautiful,  imperishable- part  of  nature  too.  Hut  it  is  not 
iHMulind  when  it  means  an  ignominious  shame  brooding  darkly. 
Shanie  is  like  a  very  flexible  veil,  that  follows  faithfully  the  shajie 
of  what  it  covers — beautiful  when  it  hides  a  beautiful  thing,  ugly 
when  it  hides  an  ugly  one.  It  has  not  covered  what  was  beauti- 
ful here ;  it  has  covered  a  mean  distrust  of  a  man's  self  and  of 
his  Creator.  It  was  neetleil  that  this  silence,  this  evil  spell,  should 
for  once  be  broken,  and  the  ilaylight  let  in,  that  the  dark  cloud 
lying  under  might  be  scattered  to  the  winds.  It  was  needed 
that  one  who  coiild  here  intliiate  for  us  "the  path  between 
reality  an<l  the  soul  "  shovild  speak.  That  is  what  these  beauti- 
ful, despised  poems,  the  "Children  of  Adam,"  do,  read  by  the 
light  that  glows  out  of  the  rest  of  the  volume :  light  of  a  clear, 
strong  faith  in  (lod,  of  an  unfathomably  deep  and  tender  love 
for  humanity, — light  shed  out  of  a  soul  that  is  "possessed 
of  itself." 

"  NsUirnl  life  of  me  fnlthfiilly  prnising  things, 
CorrolH>r:\ting  for  ever  the  Uiumph  of  IhingB." 

Now  silence  may  brood  again  ;  but  lovingly,  happily,  as  pro- 
tecting what  is  beautiful,  not  as  hiding  what  is  unbeautiful ;  con- 
sciously enfolding  a  sweet  and  sacred  mystery — august  even  as 
the  mystery  of  Death,  the  dawn  as  the  setting ;  kindred  gran* 


A    WOMAN'S  KSrmATE  Of  WALT   WHITMAN. 


5* 


deurs,  wliirh  to  eyes  that  are  opened  shed  a  hallowing  beauty 
on  alt  that  Biirrcnnuh  and  preludes  them. 

"  O  vaM  nnil  well-vpilM  Denth  t  '•  ' 

"O  the  beniiliriit  toiit'h  of  Death,  om  Sing  and  lienunibing  a  few  mnmentu, 
for  rea«une  I  " 

He  who  ran  thtis  look  with  foarloRsness  at  the  beauty  of  Dentil 
may  well  dare  to  teach  us  to  hxtk  with  fearless,  inilroubled  eye* 
at  the  perfect  beauty  of  I.ove  in  all  its  apjujinted  rcaliznlioiis. 
Now  none  need  turn  away  their  thounhis  with  pain  or  shnnie;, 
thounh  only  lovers  and  poets  may  say  what  they  will, — the  lover 
to  his  own,  the  jioet  to  all,  be<ause  all  are  in  a  sense  his  own. 
.'('one  need  fear  that  this  will  be  harmful  to  the  woman.  I  low 
should  there  be  such  a  flaw  in  the  scheme  of  creation  that,  for 
the  two  with  whom  tnere  is  no  complete  life,  save  in  closest 
sympathy,  perfect  tmion,  what  is  natural  and  happy  for  the  one 
should  be  baneful  to  the  other?  The  utmost  faithful  freedom  of 
speech,  such  as  there  is  In  these  poems,  creates  in  her  no  thought 
or  feeling  that  shuns  the  light  of  heaven,  none  that  are  not  as 
Innocent  and  serenely  fair  as  the  flowers  that  grow;  would  lead^ 
not  to  harm,  but  to  such  deep  and  tender  affection  as  makeft 
harm  or  the  thought  of  harm  simply  impossible.  Far  more 
beautiful  care  than  man  is  aware  of  has  been  taken  in  the  mak- 
ing of  her,  to  fit  her  to  be  his  mate.  God  has  taken  such  care 
that  hf  need  take  none  ;  none,  that  is,  which  consists  In  dis- 
guisement,  Insincerity,  painful  hushing-tip  of  his  true,  grand,  in- 
itiating nature.  And,  as  regards  the  poet's  utterances,  which, 
it  might  be  thotjght,  however  harmless  in  themselves,  would 
prove  harmful  by  falling  into  the  hands  of  those  for  whom  they 
are  manifestly  unsuitable,  I  believe  that  even  here  fear  is  need- 
less. For  her  innocence  is  folded  round  with  such  thick  folds 
of  ignorance,  till  the  right  way  and  time  for  it  to  accept  knowl- 
edge, that  what  is  unsuitable  is  also  unintelligible  to  her;  and, 
if  no  dark  shadow  from  without  be  cast  on  the  white  page  by 
misconstruction  or  by  toolish  mystery  and  hiding  away  of  it,  no- 
hurt  will  ensue  from  its  passing  freely  through  her  hands. 


N    1 .1 
i 


52 


IN  BE   WALT  WHITMAN. 


This  is  so,  thouj^h  it  is  little  understood  or  realized  by  men. 
Wives  and  mothers  will  learn  through  the  poet  that  there  is  re- 
joicing grandeur  and  beauty  there  wherein  their  hearts  have  so 
longed  to  find  it ;  whjie  foolish  men,  traitors  to  themselves, 
poorly  comprehending  he  grandeur  of  their  own  or  the  beauty 
of  a  woman's  nature,  have  taken  such  pains  to  make  her  believe 
there  was  none, — nothing  but  miserable  discrepancy. 

One  of  the  hardest  things  to  make  a  child  understand  is,  that 
down  underneath  your  feet,  if  you  go  far  enough,  you  come  to 
blue  sky  and  stars  again;  that  there  really  is  no  "down"  for 
the  world,  but  only  in  every  direction  an  "  up."  And  that  this 
is  an  all-embracing  truth,  including  within  its  scope  every  cre- 
ated thing,  and,  with  deepest  significance,  every  part,  faculty, 
attribute,  healthful  impulse,  mind  and  body  of  a  man  (each  and 
all  facing  towards  and  related  tr  the  Infinite  on  every  side),  is 
what  we  grown  children  find  it  hardest  to  realize,  too.  Novalis 
said  :  "  We  touch  heaven  when  we  lay  our  hand  on  the  human 
Ijody ;  "  which,  if  it  mean  anything,  must  mean  an  ample  justi- 
fication of  the  poet  who  has  dared  to  be  the  poet  of  the  body  as 
well  as  of  the  soul — to  treat  it  with  the  freedom  and  grandeur 
of  an  ancient  sculptor. 

"  Not  physiognomy  alone  nor  brain  alone  is  worthy  for  the  Muse,     I  say 
the  Form  complete  is  worthier  far." 

"These  are  not  parts  and  poems  of  the  body  only,  but  of  the  soul." 

'•O,  I  say  now  these  are  soul." 

But  while  Novalis — who  gazed  at  the  truth  a  long  way  off,  up 
in  the  air,  in  a  safe,  comfortable,  German  fashion — has  been 
admiringly  quoted  by  high  authorities,  the  great  American  who 
has  dared  to  rise  up  and  wrestle  with  it,  and  bring  it  alive  and 
full  of  power  in  the  midst  of  us,  has  been  greeted  with  a  very 
different  kind  of  reception,  as  has  happened  a  few  times  before 
in  the  world  in  similar  cases.  Yet  I  feel  deeply  persuaded  that 
a  perfectly  fearless,  candid,  ennobling  treatment  of  the  life  of 
the  body  (so  inextricably  intertwined  with,  so  potent  in  its  in- 
fluence on  the  life  of  the  soul)  vill  prove  of  inestimable  value  to 


A    WOMAN'S  ESTIMATE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN. 


s* 


all  earnest  and  aspiring  natures,  impatient  of  the  folly  of  the 
long  prevalent  belief  that  it  is  because  of  the  greatness  of  the 
spirit  that  it  has  learned  to  despise  the  body,  and  to  ignore  its 
influences ;  knowing  well  that  it  is,  on  the  contrary,  just  because 
the  spirit  is  not  great  enough,  not  healthy  and  vigorous  enougli, 
to  transfuse  itself  into  the  life  of  the  body,  elevating  that  and 
making  it  holy  by  its  own  triumphant  intensity ;  knowing,  too, 
how  the  body  avenges  this  by  dragging  the  soul  down  to  the 
level  assigned  itself.  Whereas  the  spirit  must  lovingly  embrace 
the  body,  as  the  roots  of  a  tree  embrace  the  ground,  drawing 
thence  rich  nourishment,  warmth,  impulse.  Or,  rather,  the 
body  is  itself  the  root  of  the  soul,— that  whereby  it  grows  and 
feeds.  The  great  tide  of  healthful  life  that  carries  all  before  it 
must  surge  through  the  whole  man,  not  beat  to  and  fro  in  one 
corner  of  his  brain. 


I 


* 


I  say 


"  O  the  life  of  my  senses  antl  flesh,  transcending  my  senses  and  flesh !  " 

For  the  sake  of  all  that  is  highest,  a  truthful  recognition  of 
this  life,  and  especially  of  that  of  it  which  underlies  the  funda- 
mental ties  of  humanity, — the  love  of  husband  and  wife,  fathc-- 
hood,  motherhood, — is  needed.  Religion  needs  it,  now  at  last 
alive  to  the  fact  that  the  basis  of  all  true  worship  is  comprised  in 
"  the  great  lesson  of  reception,  neither  preference  nor  denial," 
interpreting,  loving,  rejoicing  in  all  that  is  created,  fearing  and 
despising  nothing. 

"  I  accept  reality,  and  dare  not  question  it." 

The  dignity  of  a  man,  the  pride  and  affection  of  a  woman, 
need  it  too.  And  so  does  the  intellect.  For  science  has  opened 
up  such  elevating  views  of  the  mystery  of  material  existence  that, 
if  poetry  had  not  bestirred  herself  to  handle  this  theme  in  her 
own  way,  she  would  have  been  left  behind  by  her  plodding  sis- 
ter. Science  knows  that  matter  is  not,  as  we  fancied,  certain 
stolid  atoms  which  the  forces  of  nature  vibrate  through  and  push 
and  pull  about ;  but  that  the  forces  and  the  atoms  are  one  mys- 
terious, imperishable  identity,  neither  conceivable  without  the 


, «: 


54 


IS  HK    WAIT    WHITMAN. 


Other.  Mho  knowi,  m  wril  an  ihe  pod,  ilmt  tlcMruniliiliiy  in 
not  ono  ol  niiluri''n  woidn;  thiil  it  i<t  only  thi*  rcliUioiiKliip  of 
(lnnK<4  lauKihiiUy,  viniliility  -timt  Arc  Irnniiitory.  She  known 
llml  l)«)(iy  iiitil  Noiil  nro  otu*.  niul  protlaiinn  it  iiiulituntodly,  ir- 
Ki(r«ll«"«H,  iiitil  MMlitly  n'ttitrdlonH,  of  inlvrcnroK.  'rniilil  oiilook- 
cm,  rt((hi«Nl,  (luiik  it  nuMnn  tluit  hoiiI  in  lioily  -  lueiuin  iloiith  for 
the  Mini.  Milt  tlio  poet  known  it  nieiinn  body  in  noni, — the  ^lent 
whoh<  nnpeiishithle  ;  in  life  niul  in  deitth  ronlintially  clmnging 
nuhnt.inre,  rtlwny  ret.iininn  identity.  I"\»r,  if  the  ntiin  of  H»ienr« 
in  happy  idtont  the  alonin,  if  \\v  it  not  Iwtnlked  or  hafllcd  by  np- 
|>.trent  diTHv  or  drnlrndittn,  l»nt  ran  nee  far  nlon^h  into  the 
dimnrnn  to  know  that  not  t)nly  in  each  atom  in\perinhal»le,  hut 
tliat  ilH  endown^enlH,  rharaiterinlii  s,  alliniti-  n,  riertrie  and  other 
atlrarlionn  and  ropnlsionn — however  snspeiuli'd,  hid,  <lormant, 
masked,  whrn  it  oiilcv*  into  new  ronthinalions  —remain  \\\\- 
rhangfd,  W  it  for  ihonsands  ol  yoars,  and,  when  it  is  again  net 
Uvi\  nianifost  iheninelves  in  the  old  way,  nhall  ««>t  the  poet  l)c 
happv  al)«Mil  the  vit.\l  witole  ?  shall  the  highent  forre,  the  vital, 
lliat  controls  and  roin|>eln  into  roniplete  sniwervienre  for  iln  own 
ixuposos  the  rest,  be  the  oidv  one  that  in  destrm  tiblo  ?  and  the 
lovo  and  (houuhl  (hat  ondow  tho  whole  be  less  enduring  than  the 
gravitating,  rheniiial,  elertrie  powers  that  entlow  its  atoms? 
\\\\\  identity  is  the  essenec  of  love  ami  thought — I  still  I,  you 
still  vo\t.  Certaiidv  no  man  need  ever  again  be  srareil  by  the 
•'dark  hush  "  and  the  little  han«lful  of  n'hise. 

"YoM   Mt  not   ■icMtovil   to  ihe   windii — yoM   gnthcr  crrininly   nn<l   snfcly 
rimun<l  y««r«elf." 

"Surf  n«  1  ifo  holiU  ixll  prtHfi  tngcllicr,  iVnth  liolitu  nil  |H»ri^  logflher." 

"All  (joct  onwnnt  «n<t  otilwitrd  :  nothing  I'ollniwc*." 

"  NN'hftt  1  «m,  1  rtin  of  my  Iwdy ;  uml  whM  1  *hnll  he,  1  nhnll  be  of  my  l)o<ly." 

"  The  \ycn\y  pixrts  *«  nv  M  Innl  Uv  the  journey*  of  the  !m>uI." 

Seienee  knows  that  whenever  a  thing  jwsses  from  a  solid  to  a 
siibile  air,  jwwer  is  set  free  to  a  wider  seo|>e  of  aetion.  The 
|X)et  knows  it  too,  and  is  darzleti  as  he  turns  his  eyes  towarii 


A    WOMAN'S  KSTIMArH  Of    WALT  WHITMAN. 


S5 


••the  «u|irrl>  vidliw  of  (Irntli."  lie  known  tliut  "  llic  (MTpetunl 
Iriinnri'r*  mid  promotloitN  "  ntiil  "the  iiiit|ili(iiilo  of  iiin(*"nrc 
for  II  iiiiiii  im  wi'll  ns  for  the  carlli.  Tlu'  iiiiin  of  wicnip,  willi 
(iiiwriiricil,  hcIT  ilt'iiyiiiK  toil,  fiiiil<<  the  httrrs  niiil  juinii  tliciit 
into  wokU.  Iliit  (lit'  poet  alone  tnn  iiiiikc  t  (niiplitr  Hciiti-nrcfl. 
'I'lic  IIIIIII  of  Hiienip  fiirniNlwn  the  prnniwti ;  luit  it  in  tlie  poet 
who  (IrnwH  ttie  iliiiil  «  (MkIiinioii.  Iloih  to^othor  tire  "nwifdy 
Hiiil  niihly  pripating  a  future  j,'ri<aU't  than  all  ihe  paHt."  lint, 
while  the  man  ol  m  icm  c  lir(|n('alh<t  to  i(  llie  frnits  of  hin  toil, 
Ihe  poet,  thin  mighty  po«l,  Itttpiralhi  himself—"  Dnilh  making 
him  really  nmlyiin."  He  will  "  Htainl  nti  iii^h  an  the  nigheHt  " 
to  tliene  men  an<t  women.  I'or  he  taiixht  them,  in  worils  whi«  h 
breathe  out  hin  very  heart  and  nonl  into  tlieirn,  that  "  love  of 
titnuadcs"  whit  h,  like  the  "soft-horn  ineaMiirelesH  Iik''*/* 
innkeH  wholeRomc  and  fertile  every  npot  it  penetrates  to,  lighting 
lip  dark  mx  inl  and  politit  al  prolileinn,  and  kindling  into  a  ge* 
Ilia!  glow  that  great  heart  of  juslite  whi(  h  is  the  life-soiir<e  of 
Demoi  rni  y.  lie,  the  beloved  friend  of  all,  initiated  for  them  fl 
"  new  and  Hnperb  friendship  ;  "  whispered  that  sec  ret  of  .1  god- 
like pride  in  a  man*!!  nelf,  aiitl  a  perfe«  t  trust  in  woman,  whereby 
their  love  f«)r  each  tither,  no  longer  poisoned  and  stifled,  but 
basking  in  the  light  of  (lod's  smile,  and  sending  tip  to  him  a 
perfume  of  gralitnde,  attains  at  last  a  divine  and  tender  ( om- 
pletenesH.  lie  gave  a  faith-compelling  utterance  to  that  "wis- 
dom which  is  the  certainly  of  the  reality  and  immortality  of 
things,  and  of  the  excellent  e  of  things."  Happy  America,  that 
he  shtHild  be  her  son  I  One  sees,  intlecd,  that  only  a  yt)ung 
giant  of  a  nation  1  duM  prodiit  c  this  kind  t)f  greatness,  so  full  of 
the  aiihir,  the  elastit  ily,  the  inexhanstil)le  vigor  and  freshness, 
the  joyoiisness,  the  audacity  of  youth.  Hut  I,  for  one,  cannot 
gruilgc  anything  to  America.  For,  after  all,  the  young  giant  in 
the  old  Englisii  giant,  inc  great  Knglish  race  renewing  its  youth 
in  that  magnifn  ent  land,  "  Mexican-breathed,  Arctic-braced," 
and  girding  up  its  loins  to  start  on  a  new  career  that  shall  match 
with  the  greatness  of  the  new  home. 


WALT  WHITMAN. 


•'  TliK  good  gray  i>oet  "  (jonc  1     Uravc,  hopeful  Walt! 

lie  mi(;ht  not  be  a  singer  without  fault, 

Anil  his  Inrgr,  roujjh-hewn  rhythm  tliil  not  chime 

With  iluiccnt  daintiness  of  lime  and  riiyme. 

He  was  no  neater  than  wide  Nature's  wild, 

More  metrical  than  sea  winds.     Culture's  child, 

Lapped  in  luxurious  laws  of  line  and  lilt, 

Shrank  from  him  shuddering,  who  was  roughly  built 

As  Cyclopean  temples.     Yet  there  rang 

True  music  through  his  rhapsodies,  as  he  sang 

Of  brotherhood,  and  freedom,  love  and  hope. 

With  strong,  wide  symjiathy  which  dared  to  cope 

With  all  life's  ph.ises,  and  call  nought  unclean. 

Whilst  hearts  are  generous,  and  whilst  woods  are  green, 

lie  shall  find  hearers,  who,  in  a  slack  time 

Of  puny  l);irds  and  pessimistic  rhyme, 

Dared  to  liid  men  ailvcnture  and  rejoice. 

His  "  yawp  barbaric  "  was  a  human  voice  ; 

The  singer  was  a  man.     America 

Is  jworcr  by  a  stalwart  soul  to-day, 

And  may  feel  pride  that  she  hath  given  birth 

To  this  stout  laureate  of  old  Mother  Eailh. 


(5«) 


PuHck. 


roti 


n, 


THE  MAN  WALT  WHITMAN. 


B^  RtCHAHD  MAURICE  BUCKS. 


How  many  a  man  whose  lot  has  been  cast  in  thj^se  current 
days  has  wished  that  his  life  might  have  been  passed  cotemporary 
with  some  historic  character  for  whom  he  is  possessed  of  an  es- 
pecial admiration.  With  the  wise  Socrates,  for  instance  ;  or  Aris- 
totle, "  U  maestro  di  color  che  sanno  ;  "  or  Plato,  "whose  lan- 
guage," says  Shelley,  "  is  rather  that  of  an  immortal  spirit  than 
a  man  j  "  or  Paul,  reckoned  by  Comte,  "  le  vrai  fondatem  du 
Christianisme ; "  or  Mohammed,  "the  inspired  Arab;"  or 
Luther,  Dant6,  Bacon,  Swedenborg ;  or  the  almost  divine  Fran- 
cis D'Assisi,  that  he  might  have  seen  and  conversed  with  the 
great  spirit  then  upon  the  earth;  while  all  the  time,  entirely 
unconscious  of  the  fact,  he  has  been  living  side  by  side  with  one 
perhaps  as  great  as  tlie  greatest  of  tliese. 

Just  so  did  the  contemporaries  of  these  glorious  ones  carelessly 
jostle  them  on  the  street,  sit  opposite  them  at  table,  talk  with 
them  and  hear  them  talked  about ;  stand  by,  perhaps,  while  one 
of  them  was  being  driven  forth  from  Florence;  hear  another 
preach,  witneiis  the  lamentable  disgrace  of  a  third,  see  one 
fleeing  throtigh  the  desert  from  his  enemies,  listen  to  the  subtle 
discourse  of  another  in  street  or  market  place,  note  a  certain 
religious  innovator  pleading  for  the  new  ideas  at  Antioch,  Athens, 
or  Corinth — pass  among  them,  and  tiieii  return  to  his  daily 
round  of  occupation  unimpressed,  most  likely  discontented  at  the 
absence  of  interesting  persons  and  events  in  his  age  and  land. 

We  see  what  we  have  it  in  us  to  see.  Around  each  of  us  is 
spread  out  every  day  and  night  the  infinite  universe,  inimitably 
extended,  peopled  with  innumerable  worlds  and  unimaginable 
spirits,  infinitely  various  in  infinite  ways,  infinitely  complex,  in- 

(57) 


i  ! 


m 


S8 


iff  KK  WAt.r  WtttTMAX. 


finiii'ly  lu'rtn»in»l  -  rtfjninst  nil  t>f  wlii«  h  we  t)ppose  nn  infltiite 
Rtoliitity,  :\iui  with  itiHiute  nnstimme  ilemaml  suitietlting  in  which 
wv  vm  feel  an  itiierest. 

We  believe  in  R\i|Me»nely  Rtrat  men  in  the  prt-tt,  nml  most  of 
i\*  believe  in  evolution,  bnt  we  Irtil  to  te;»li7»'  timt  llie<(e  two 
belieCs  itnply  the  existence  of  still  greater  men,  \n  i\\\  ileprtrt- 
tttents,  in  the  nroilern  that*  in  the  !\n» ienl  world.  t)ur  eyes  are 
tlrtf.r.leil  by  the  urtntt  hist»>rir  nantes,  ftnil»  if  we  wonlil  tell  the 
trnih.  we  shonhl  own  th.M  we  are  A  lillh-  t\(\;\'u\  to  risk  t.nr  own 
jn<lnn\em,  i\t\il  thiii  xve  wonM  rather  trust  urentness  that  Ims  been 
Well  enilorsed  timn  rnn  the  risk  whieh  attends  the  ei»doisement 
of  ttew  men. 

He  this  as  it  tnav,  and  with  all  dne  rrspe«t  to  the  an-  tent  and 
medieval  hetoes  ol  Asia  and  Mntope.  these  lew  pages  are  ded- 
iraied  to  the  endotsaiiott  ol  a  modertt  Amenran. 

Walt  Whitman  is  a  tttodern  of  the  ntodetn;,  an  Atneriean  of 
the  Anteriians.     Me  says: 

*•  Mv  tT»i>mi^,  pvrvv  ntom  of  n>v  Moivt,  foimpil  fnMi^  tliW  «oil,  ilii«  nir, 
lUin\  \\f\r-  ol  pniTiu^  \wi\n  lu-ne  lV<Mn  prtiTHl«llie  sume  rtnil  tlitir  prtietUs  iht 

The  wtitings  of  this  man  are  both  in  tnatler  and  tnanner  ttn- 
like  any  previotts  and  rattnot  be  jndgrd  by  the  etirhMit  rattotts. 
They  atv  throtighottt  an  itnmense,  tnassive.  exhaimtivr.  snbtle  antl 
p^^^f■o^^1\d  antv>biv>gtaphy  sttrh  as  until  now  the  world  has  not 
seen: 


What." 
ttlbly  spfi 
mals,  of 
hiitiself- 
so  ntm  h 
the  Uivin 


"  Whrtt  rtw  \  nf\tt  ftll  h\i{  A  f'h\\A  plenst-it  with  the  sintnd  of  my  own  nume  ? 
^r^vrtltnij  it  ovrt  n\\<\  ovrv  ; 
I  MrtWil  AJW11  to  hem     it  newt  tue*  me," 

tf  \w  rtMnbinoil  both  parts  of  (JoetheS  "  Tatist  "  with  his  prose 
W^mK.  "  Wahrhoit  tnt\l  l)i«  hinttg  ans  meittem  I, ebon,"  we  slivntid 
hA\-c  a  K>ok  stririlv  parallel  to  the  vohnne  unttainiitg  the  eonv 
plete  ^\^>tks  of  Walt  Whitt^an  ;  bttt  the  arhieventottt  of  the  great 
(ren^^an,  grand  as  it  is.  would  still  fall  far  short  of  that  of 
the  American  poet. 


THK   MAff   WAIT  WIUmAN. 


5V 


M  iiifltiite 
in  which 

most  of 
ie?<p   two 

•  leprtM. 
•  ves  nns 

t.-ll  the 

I  !ii-  own 

has  been 

orsetneiit 

lent  rthtl 
liiiin  of 


ir. 


inner  nn- 

Tiinons. 

ihil»»  rtntl 

lias   not 


m  «nme? 


his  pmse 
e  shouUl 
lie  rom- 
lie  RrcAt 
that  of 


Whnlfver  Walt  Wliilnidn'ssnhjert  nmtter,  wlipthpr  he  is  nsten- 
sihly  R|)piil<ing  of  himself,  tif  some  oilier  Intlividnal,  of  the  iinl- 
mals,  of  soinrthinn  Intpersonul,  he  is  nlwnys  spenkiiiK  reitlly  of 
himself- -of  himself  treatpil  «s  the  ivpitui  mnn,  iinil  s(ttrente<l  not 
m  mnrh  ns  lieing  better  tlmn  others  hut  ns  seeing  more  clearly 
the  divinity  thnt  is  itt  every  human  being ; 

"  t  rf|p|)inl(»  ntyoelf,  niiil  slug  niy^rlf, 
Anil  wiml  I  HMUtiU'  you  shnll  rt<i<ni»n««." 

The  man  himself,  the  whole  nmn,  body  and  fltnit,  indnding 
his  relations  to  the  material  world  about  him  and  the  practical 
and  nodal  life  of  his  time,  is  faithhilly  mirrored  in  his  book. 
The  ontward  ami  inward  enpeiiencesof  a  lonjj  life  are  vividly  anri 
trnthfnily  briefed;  nothing  is  omitted,  the  most  trivial  and  the 
tnost  v!i.;!  cqiially  finding  place.  The  whole  is  done  in  a  monner 
far  removed  from  the  nsnal  direct  antobitigrnphic  prose  ;  in  a 
m:inner,  indeed,  qnite  nnnsnal,  special,  poetic  and  indire<  t.  The 
result  is  sui  h  that  future  ages  will  know  this  man  as  perhapn 
no  humatt  being  heretofore  has  been  ever  known  either  to  his 
cotetnptuaries  or  suciessors.  The  exposition  of  the  perstm  in- 
volving eipially  that  of  his  environment  gives  us  iiuidcnially  a 
photograph  of  Ameri»a,  1H50-90.  The  breathing  man,  Walt 
Whitman,  in  his  surroundings,  as  he  lived,  is  so  faithfully  re- 
produt  ed,  and  with  s\u  h  vitality,  that  all  must  admit  the  justice 
of  his  final  dictum : 

"  'l"lll<  U  ttolmiik, 
Whi)  liiucliM  tliin  lout  lies  n  nmn." 

The  reailer  whoshoithl  peruse  "  Leaves  «if  (lioss"  ns  he  would 
an  ordinary  book,  lor  the  thoughts  whii  h  ihe  winds  immediately 
express,  ami  shoiilil  rest  there,  wtnild  be  like  a  c  hihl  who,  having 
learned  the  alphabet,  shoiihl  (onsider  his  education  lornplele. 
The  thoughts,  feelings,  images,  emolituis  which  lie  directly  be- 
hind the  words  const iliile  merclv  the  fa»,ade  of  the  temple,  the 
introduction  to  Ihe  real  (dijee  t  to  be  piesrnted.  That  object,  an 
has  been  said,  is  an  embodiment  of  its  author,  Walt  Whitman. 
This  being  the  case,  the  value  of  the  Inuik  will  depend  largely 
Upon  the  sort  of  man  he  proves  to  be. 


6o 


IN  RE  WALT  WHITMAN. 


As  pointed  out  over  twenty  years  ago  by  John  Burroughs,  the 
author  of  "Leaves  of  Grass"  occupies  upon  the  broad  and 
crowded  canvas  of  the  nineteenth  century  an  unique  position. 
His  name  is  to-day  almost  as  widely  known  as  that  of  any  man 
living  ;  the  man  himself  may  be  said  to  be  known  by  none  and 
to  be  approximately  known  to  a  few  only.  His  writings  are 
talked  about  (generally  scoffed  at)  almost  universally,  looked 
into  by  merely  a  few  thousand,  partially  understood  by  at  most 
a  few  hundred.  The  books,  pamphlets,  magazine  articles,  news- 
paper criticisms  and  paragraphs  written  and  published  about  him 
since  the  first  edition  of  his  book  appeared  in  1855  are  uncount- 
able. My  own  very  imperfect  collection,  in  English,  French, 
Hungarian,  German,  Italian  and  Danish,  foots  up  something  like 
two  thousand  distinct  pieces,  each  from  a  few  lines  to  a  volume 
in  compass.  He  has  been  translated  and  commented  upon  in 
every  country  and  language  of  Europe.  The  range  of  this  com- 
ment and  criticism  is  even  more  remarkable  than  either  it* 
copiousness  or  its  geographical  extent.  It  stretches  the  whole 
sweep  of  the  gamut,  from  the  dreadful  verdict  of  the  London 
(England)  Critic,  in  1855,  which  "  declares  emphatically  that 
the  man  who  wrote  '  Leaves  of  Grass  '  deserves  nothing  so  richly 
as  the  public  executioner's  whip,"  through  phases  less  and  less, 
condemnatory,  past  the  mean  of  indifferenoy,  into  zones  more 
and  more  laudatory,  until  we  reach  a  considerable  band  of 
writers,  including  Dowden,  Rolleston,  Joaquin  Miller,  Sarrazin, 
Buchanan,  F.  W.  Walters,  W.  S.  Kennedy,  John  Burroughs, 
Freiligrath  and  W.  M.  Rossetti,  who  place  this  author's  name  be- 
side the  names  of  Homer,  Dant^  and  Shakspere.  In  fact,  recog« 
nition  soars  even  above  this  height,  until,  by  such  writers  and 
thinkers  as  Mrs.  Anne  Gilchrist  and  W.  D.  O'Connor,  Whitman  is 
placed  in  the  last  and  highest  rank,  with  the  social  and  religious  re- 
formers and  founders,  beside  Confucius,  Buddha,  Zoroaster,  Jesus. 
Time  alone  can  arbitrate  between  such  diverse  judgments  as  these. 

Meanwhile,  it  may  be  urged  that  if  this  man  is  what  his  con- 
temners think  him,  if  he  is  even  what  tlie  coldly  indifferent  or 
"moderately  friendly  believe,  he  could  hardly  be  ranked,  as  we 
see  he  is,  by  such  onlookers  as  tiiose  above  named. 


The 
ground  w( 
ally   gooc 
sen ted. 
all  other 
He  has  b 
greater  p 
number 
years  ma 
with  ever 
writings. 
As  Wd 
been  in 
face  of  it 
inal  and 
has  been 
his  positi 
thinker, 
intended 
word,  an 
all  such 
by  going 
own  woi 
and  he  d 


What 
J'ne: 


He  S3 
higher  g 

Until 
h  healt 
dowed, 
men,  ar 


THE  MAN   WALT   WHITMAN. 


6l 


The  present  writer  may  .ay,  by  way  of  indicating  the 
ground  work  of  the  faith  that  is  in  hin:.,  that  he  has  had  unusu- 
ally good  opportunities  of  studying  the  problem  here  pre- 
sented. He  has  been  a  careful  reader  of  •'  Leaves  of  Grass  "  and 
all  other  writings  by  the  same  author  for  over  twenty-five  years. 
He  has  been  on  terms  of  personal  intimacy  with  the  poet  the 
greater  part  of  that  time,  and  has  known  f„;  iriany  years  a  large 
number  of  his  closest  friends.  He  has  for  at  least  twenty 
years  made  himself  acquainted,  as  far  as  it  has  been  possible, 
with  everything  that  has  been  published  about  the  man  and  his 
writings. 

As  Walt  Whitman  wrote  a  book,  and  as  the  writing  of  it  has 
been  in  one  sense  the  work  of  his  life,  and  as  the  book  on  the 
face  of  it  appears  to  be  a  philosophical  poem,  though  of  an  orig- 
inal and  somewhat  singular  sort,  so  it  has  followed  that  this  man 
has  been  chiefly  considered  and  written  about  with  reference  to 
his  position  in  the  world  of  art  and  letters — that  is,  as  a  poet  and 
thinker.  But  this  is  certainly  a  false  point  of  view;  he  never 
intended  to  write  poetry  in  the  ordina.y  acceptation  of  that 
word,  and  assuredly  he  never  meant  to  write  philosophy.  Upon 
all  such  points  as  thest  we  can  get  full  and  reliable  information 
by  going  to  Walt  Whitman  himself,  as  the  man  is  set  forth  in  his 
own  words.  He  tells  us  in  what  sense  he  is  and  is  not  a  poet, 
and  he  disclaims  explicitly  the  title  of  philosopher.     He  says: 


"  No  friend  of  mine  takes  his  ease  in  my  chair, 
I  have  no  chair,  no  church,  no  philosophy." 

What  he  did  aim  at  is  characteristically  expressed  in  the  next 
I'ne : 

"  But  each  man  and  wom'\n  of  you  I  lead  upon  a  knoll." 

He  says  he  will  lead  each  one  of  us  upon  an  elevation,  upon 
higher  ground. 

Until  thirty  years  of  age  and  upwards  Walt  Whitman,  though 
;'i  health,  features,  build,  physique  generally,  exceptionally  en- 
dowed, was  spiritually,  as  far  as  appeared,  on  a  par  with  ordinary 
men,  and  what  he  wrote  up  to  that  time  was  not  by  any  means 


■■«■" 


63 


IN  RE  WALT  WHITMAN. 


/ 


distinguished  by  txtraordinary  qualities.     But  after  attaining,  at 
the  usual  age,  the  average  mental  status  of  his  time  and  land,  he 
did  not  rest  there,  but,  urged  forward  by  an  invincible  impulse  of 
growth  antl  expansion  within,  he  attained  a  mental  level  unpre-i 
cedented,  as  I  believe,  in  the  history  of  humanity. 

Think,  if  one  of  our  primitive  Aryan  ancestors,  far  back  be- 
hind Homer,  the  Vedas  and  the  Zendavesta,  had  been 

"  1  .aid  nslccp  in  some  great  trance, 
Tile  ages  coming  and  going  all  the  while," 

and  should  awaken  now.  Would  not  the  men  of  the  civilized 
nations  of  to-day  seem  to  him  superhuman  ?  and  their  deeds, 
thoughts,  feelings,  if  he  could  understand  them,  preternatural  ? 

Walt  Whitman,  by  mere  growth,  (xissed  simply  and  naturally 
beyond  the  generation  into  which  he  was  born,  and  is  to  us  to-; 
day  what  we  should  be  to  the  supposed  sleeper  awakened. 

There  is  nothing  supernatural,  unprecedented,  nor  even  very 
singuh'T  about  this.  All  advance,  whether  in  the  human  or 
in  the  organic  world,  is  made  by  just  such  fitful,  seemingly  un- 
caused, spurts  and  starts.  So  came,  and  doubtless  will  yet 
come,  among  plants  and  animals,  new  varieties  and  species;  and, 
in  the  world  of  men,  new  religions,  philosophies,  politics,  social 
arrangemeni:s.  Thus  came  that  splendid  outburst  of  artistic  and 
intellectual  pre-eminence  in  periclean  Athens,  involving  a  race 
or  sept,  instead  of  being  confined,  as  is  more  usual,  to  an  indi- 
vidual or  fiimily. 

My  point  of  view  then  is  that  Walt  Whitman's  teaching,  his 
example,  his  religion,  are  not  founded  on  make-believe,  specula-  j 
tion  or  sentiment,  but,  like  the  eternal  rocks  themselves,  are  | 
solid,   genuine,    inevitable,   and   are,   to  use  his  own  words,  i 
established  by  "  undeniable  growth." 

"As  he  sees  the  farthest  he  has  the  most  faith, 
His  thoughts  are  the  hymns  of  the  praise  of  things." 

In  tVe  language  of  the  Veda : 


"  Who  se 

and  in  the 

Usuall) 

level  of  I 

parttTient 

the  intel 

hammed 

stinct ;  t 

poet,  sci 

and  aspir 

If  these 

and  Goe 

great  qu 

highest 

In  the 
of  his  ti 
group  of 
intellect 
him  to  r 
among 
acceptai 
before  I 
began 
tellect, 
develop 
unprecc 
and  res< 
along 
aspirati 
creativi 
Putti 
shown 
levels  < 
izatior 
body, 
his  fej 


1 


fi'ung,  at 

land,  he 

ipulse  of 

-1  unpre-: 

i 

Iback  be- 


civilized 
|r  deeds, 
ilural  ? 
laturally 
to  us  to- 

'en  very 
man   or; 

igly  un- 

Vlli    yet 

s ;  and, 
5>  social 
itic  and 
a  race 
n  indi- 

ing,  his 
pecula- 
es,  are  | 
words,  i 


TlfE  MAN  WALT  WHITMAN.  6f 

"  Who  sees  lurther  than  othen;  he  who  has  learned  to  mark  the  EternaU, 
and  in  the  course  of  nature  to  perceive  their  might  and  wisdom." 


Usually,  in  the  case  of  a  so-called  great  man  the  rise  above  the 
level  of  ills  time  is  in  one,  or  at  most  two  or  three,  mental  de- 
partments. Aristotle,  for  instance,  and  Newton,  are  great  by 
the  intellect;  Sophocles  by  intellect  and  artistic  genius;  Mo- 
hammed had  creative  religious  as  well  as  supreme  artistic  in* 
stinct ;  tiie  author  of  the  Shaksperean  dramas  was  a  philosopher, 
poet,  scientist,  but  did  not  possess  the  higher  religious  emotions 
and  aspirations,  nor  had  he  what  may  be  called  prophetic  insight,  j 
If  these  plays  proceeded  from  Bacon,  then  he,  Leonardo  da  Vinci 
and  Goethe  were  of  all  men  the  most  universally  endowed  with) 
great  qualities — yet  they  all  came  short,  judged  by  the  last  and 
highest  standard. 

In  the  case  of  Wait  Whitman  the  advance  beyond  the  limits- 
of  his  time  and  race  was  not  confined  to  any  one  function  or 
group  of  functions — it  was  universal,  along  the  whole  line.  His- 
intellect,  had  it  stood  alone,  was  great  enough  to  have  entitled, 
him  to  rank  among  the  foremost  thinkers  of  the  race,  as  witness, 
among  a  hundred  other  proofs,  his  comprehensive  vision  and 
acceptance  of  evolution  in  both  the  inorganic  and  organic  worlds 
before  Darwin  published  the  "Origin  of  Species"  or  Spencer 
began  his  cyclopaedic  treatise.  But,  exceptional  as  is  his  in- 
tellect, the  moral  and  emotional  side  of  his  mind  is  still  more 
developed.  His  capacity  for  affection  and  sympathy  is,  I  believe,, 
unprecedented,  and  hissterner  moral  qualities — courage,  firmness; 
and  resolution — are  as  strongly  if  not  more  strongly  marked.  And 
along  with  these  he  has  prophetic  vision,  religious  assurance, 
aspiration  and  insight  of  the  highest  order,  and,  furthermore, 
creative  imagination  by  which  to  embody  them  in  new  ideals. 

Putting  aside  his  exceptional  intellectual  and  moral  status  as 
shown  in  his  writings,  his  advance  beyond  the  past  and  present 
levels  of  humanity  is  attested  in  every  part  and  aspect  of  his  organ- 
ization— in  his  build,  stature,  his  exceptional  health  of  mind  and 
body,  the  texture  and  tint  of  his  skin,  the  size  and  form  of 
his  features,  his  cleanliness  of  mind  and  body,  the  grace  of  his* 


I 


<54 


IN  RE   WALT  WHITMAN. 


movements  and  gestures,  the  grandeur,  and  especially  the  mag- 
netism, of  his  presence,  the  peculiar  charm  of  his  voice,  his 
genial  and  kindly  humor,  the  simplicity  of  his  habits  and 
tastes,  his  freedom  from  conventions,  the  largeness  and  beauty 
of  his  manners,  his  calmness  and  majesty,  his  charity  and  for- 
bearance,  his  entire  unresentfulness  under  whatever  provocation, 
his  liberality,  his  universal  sympathy  with  humanity  in  all  ages 
and  lands,  his  broad  tolerance,  his  catholic  friendliness  and  his 
unexampled  faculty  of  attracting  affection. 

And  still  far  from  all  has  been  said,  curious,  interesting  and 
suggestive  points  being  still  to  note  ;  the  extraordinary  perfection, 
namely,  of  his  senses,  and  his  universality  from  the  point  of  view 
of  physiognomy. 

The  coin-  .sense,  the  sense  of  musical  harmony,  the  sense  of 
frag  ct ,  are  each,  perhaps,  only  a  few  thousand  years  old,  and 
arej.  ..pi  -ess  of  development.  In  Walt  Whitman  the  senses 
of  fra^,  nee  anj  'nrmony,  and,  I  believe,  of  color  also,  are  far 
beyond  the  usua*  r.u2dard,  while  his  ear  for  ordinary  sounds  is 
almost  preternaturally  acute : 

•■         "I  hear  br.ivur.is  of  birds,  dus//e  of  grmving  wheat ;  " 

and  elsewhere  he  speaks  of  hearing  the  grass  grow  and  the  trees 
coming  out  in  leaf.     Then  note  this  passage  on  fragrance : 

"  There  is  a  scent  to  every  Ihing,  even  the  snow.  No  two  places,  hardly 
any  two  hours,  anywhere  exactly  alike.  How  diflferent  the  odor  of  noon 
from  midnight,  or  winter  from  summer,  or  a  windy  spell  from  a  still  one." 

All  his  senses,  so  far  as  I  have  been  able  to  discover,  are  de- 
veloped to  the  same  degree,  so  that  he  sees,  hears,  feels,  in  his 
mere  physical  surroundings,  phenomena  and  qualities  inappreci- 
able to  others ;  while  in  spiritual  affairs — the  corresponding  facul- 
ties being  developed  harmoniously  with  the  rest — he  has  an  in- 
stinct, sense,  intuition,  illumination,  or  whatever  it  may  be  called, 
in  comparison  with  which  the  psychic  vision  of  the  average  man 
is  mere  blindness.  "  " 

Then,  as  to  the  other  point.     An  English  expert  in  physiog- 


nomy, wh 
stance  of 
people  ha 
ments  (ch 
man  poss< 
tion. 

Upon  { 
terials,  w< 
portioned 
the  lowes 
preterhun 
phetic  ph 
man,  and 
wealth." 
This  b 
which  it  I 
tional  ra{ 
Walt  Wh 
sage  he  b 
"  has  a  n 
he  will  t 
richer  in 
And  b 
he  brings 
that  it  ha 
nesses,  gr 
from  res 
pretense 
from  fau 
tions,  su 
spiritual, 
acceptat 
life  of  f 
sympath 
life  whi< 
verse — a 
a  life  o 
5 


beauty 


,  THE  MAN   WALT  WHITMAN.  (j 

nomy,  whil'*  on  a  visit  to  America,  called  on  the  poet  at  the  in> 
stance  of  the  present  writer,  to  whom  he  wrote  that  while  most 
people  have  one,  two  or  three  of  the  four  recognized  tempera- 
ments (choleric,  phlegmatic,  sanguine,  melancholic),  »Valt  Whit- 
man possesses  all  four  of  them — a  rare  and  remarkable  combina- 
tion. 

Upon  such  ample  and  stable  basis,  and  of  such  various  ma- 
terials,  was  built  this  exceptional  character — symmetrical,  pro- 
portioned ;  each  human  faculty — the  highest  as  the  lowest,  and 
the  lowest  as  the  highest — fully  represented,  with  a  result  almost 
preterhuman  in  its  typical  humanity.  To  use  Emerson's  pro- 
phetic phrase:  "  He  stands  among  partial  men  for  the  complete 
man,  and  apprises  us  not  only  of  his  wealth  bat  of  the  common-| 
wealth." 

This  breadth  and  symmetry  of  development,  and  the  extent 
which  it  rovers  in  all  direcfions,  bringing  this  man  into  excep- 
tional rapport  with  the  universe,  is  the  distinguishing  mark  of 
Walt  Whitman,  and  is  our  guarantee  of  the  truth  of  the  mes 
sage  he  brings  us.  For  in  virtue  of  his  special  organization  lu 
*'  has  a  new  thought ;  he  has  a  whole  new  experience  to  unfold  ; 
he  will  tell  us  how  it  was  with  him,  and  all  men  will  be  U.i 
richer  in  his  fortune." 

And  beyond  all  other  messages,  and  as  warrant  for  the  rest 
he  brings  to  each  man  and  woman  that  of  a  noble  life,  evid*^  cing 
that  it  has  been  lived  and  may  be  lived — a  life  free  from  ..  s.tti- 
nesses,  greed  and  sordid  care ;  from  hates,  envyings  and  jealousies; 
from  resentments  and  meannesses;  from  conventionality  and 
pretense ;  from  remorse  and  regret ;  from  fear  and  complaint  j 
from  fault-finding,  wrangling  and  querulousness ;  from  prostra- 
tions, superstitions  and  supplications — a  life  copious,  vehement, 
spiritual,  bold — a  life  of  grand  acceptations  in  a  grand  spirit ; 
acceptation  of  pain,  sorrow,  loss,  sickness,  old  age,  death — ^a 
life  of  freedom,  of  love  and  of  content — a  life  of  friendship, 
sympathy,  forbearance,  kindness,  helpfulness  and  devotion — a 
life  which  freely  takes  and  enjoys  its  patrimony,  the  divine  uni- 
verse— a  life  which  knows  its  own  continuity  and  immortality— 
a  life  of  unlimited  struggle  and  aspiration — a  life  of  reality^ 


It 


1 


.    1 

; 

Mr 

If 

I' 


4$  JN  RK  WALT  WHITMAS. 

Rclf-esteem,  definiteness,  elevatcdness.    'I'liis  is  the  leuon  he  sets 
America  and  the  world. 

On  all  points  his  book  and  his  life  are  at  one.  He  once  said 
to  the  present  writer:  "I  have  imaj;incd  a  life  which  should 
be  that  of  tiie  average  man,  in  average  circumstances,  and  still 
grand,  heroic."  So  he  lived,  and  such  a  lite  he  pictured  in  his 
book.  What  his  writings  teach  he  teaches  with  still  stronger 
emphasis  in  his  actu.il,  ordinary,  daily  liTe.  As  in  this  he  was 
simple,  unaffected,  unpretending,  so  in  his  book  he  is  always 
downriglit,  plain  bnd  straiglit forward.  Never  an  insincere  line 
or  word.  The  most  commonplace  antl  the  most  profoimd  say- 
ings side  by  side,  the  one  uttered  as  truthfully  ai  d  moderately 
as  the  other.  HIcnding  every-day  sights  and  experiences  with 
glimpses  into  the  profoundest  depths  of  his  spiritual  conscious* 
ness.  The  one  as  n)uch  a  plain  matter  of  fact  as  the  other. 
For  instance:  all  through  tlie  "  Ixjaves,"  will  be  found  such 
contrasting  passages  as  the  two  which  follow: 

••  Lumbermen  in  Iheir  winter  cnmp,  (Uyhrcitk  in  the  woods,  itripei  of  snow 

on  the  liinbsi  of  trees,  the  occasiuiial  snapping, 
The  gtad  clear  sound  of  one's  own  voice,  the  merry  song,  the  natural  IfTii 

of  the  wooiIh,  the  strong  day's  work, 
The  blazing  fire  at  niglit,  the  sweet  tnste  of  supper,  the  talk,  the  bed  of 

hemlock  lx>ughs  and  the  bearsitin." 

"  There  is  that  in  me — I  do  not  know  what  it  is — bui  I  know  it  ii  in  me. 
Wrench'd  and  sweaty— calm  and  cool  then  my  liody  becomes, 
I  sleep — I  sleej.-  long : 

I  do  not  know  it — it  is  without  name — it  is  a  word  unsaid, 
It  is  not  in  any  dictionary,  utterance,  symlK>l. 
Somcthiog  it  swings  on  more  than  the  earth  I  swing  on. 
To  it  the  crcilion  is  the  friend  whose  embracing  awakes  me. 
IVrha|is  I  might  tell  more.     Outlines  I     I  plead  for  my  brothers  and  sisters. 
Do  you  see  O  my  brothers  and  sisters  ? 

It  is  not  chaos  or  death — it  is  form,  union,  plan — it  is  eternal  life — it  is 
Happiness." 

See  how  fervently  he  expresses  in  his  book,  and  over  and  over 
again  repeats  his  faith  in  (might  I  not  say  his  knowledge  of?)  im- 
mortality.    His  private,  unpoetic,  every-day  assurance  is  neither 


on  he  sets 

once  said 
h  flhuuld 
,  and  still 
red  in  his 
stronger 
is  he  was 
is  always 
ucre  line 
[)nnd  say- 
loderately 
nces  with 
:onsciou8< 
he  other, 
und  such 


es  of  snow 
natural  l-r«i 
the  bed  of 

in  me. 


THE  MAN   WALT  WHITMAN.  67 

more  nor  less  than  there  set  down.  I  asked  him  one  day  when 
we  were  alone  together  whether  he  believed  in  the  personal,  con- 
scious immortality  of  the  soul.  He  answered  :  "Yes,  I  do."  I 
said  :  "  Ihit  |)crha|)s  you  believe  in  it  as  so  many  do — as  some- 
thing tliat  is  more  likely  than  not,  and  not  as  something  cer> 
tain.  Arc  you  sure,"  1  continued,  "  that  you  will  retain  individu- 
ality  and  consciousness  after  death?"  He  paused  a  moment 
before  replying,  and  then  said,  earnestly:  "Yes;  I  am  sure 
of  it." 

In  "  Leaves  of  Grass  "  he  declares: 

"  I  call  to  the  world  to  (liitrimt  the  accounts  of  my  frlcndi  but  listen  to  my 
enemies  as  1  niyseir  do." 

So  acctjsations  and  allegations  such  as  were  flimg  at  him 
almost  daily  (for  as  it  is  written  of  such  as  he  :  "  he  must  stand  for 
a  fool  and  a  churl  for  a  long  season  ")  he  would  meet  by  the  remark 
(when  he  noticed  them  at  all)  that  he  deserved  the  worst  that 
could  be  said  of  him,  and  if  that  particular  story  did  not  hapjien 
to  be  true,  he  had  no  doubt  committed  other  acts  that  were  worse. 
He  never  seemed  to  feel  the  least  aggrieved  or  injured  by  the  tales 
told  about  him  ;  looked  upon  them  as  natural,  and  in  a  sense  justi- 
fied— incidents  to  be  looked  for,  expected.  I  was  much  an- 
noyed, on  one  occasion,  when  a  certain  person  manifested  strong 
disapprobation  and  dislike  of  him  and  his  writings,  and  I  spoke 
to  him  about  it.  "Why,"  answered  he,  rather  sharply,  "who 
wotild  want  the  world  all  made  up  of  sweets?  " 

All  who  know  anything  of  "  Leaves  of  Grass  "  know  how  the 
author  deals  with  death.     For  instance : 


and  sbten. 
life— it  is 

and  over 
of?)  im- 
s  neither 


"  My  foothold  is  tenon'd  and  mortis'd  in  granite : 
I  laugh  at  what  you  call  dissolution, 
And  I  know  the  amplitude  of  time." 

"The  joy  of  death. 
The  beautiful  touch  of  death  soothing  and  benumbing  a  few  moments  for 
reasons." 

"Come  lovely  and  soothing  death." 


..j»k 


MtMW 


■aaiii 


■MHMM 


61 


IN  KK   WAl.T   Will  I'M  AN, 


"  l'r>i*M  Iw  the  falhonilrM  unlvrrie, 
K<ir  llfr  (111(1  jiiy,  mul  lor  oltjcrti  itml  kn(iwlril|;e  curinui, 
Ai\<l  ftir  lovr,  »ivci'(  love — lull  |iriii<ip|   praiai*  1   putiiel 
l-ur  the  RurecnM'iiiilIni;  armn  of  coulcitfoMInK  tlentli," 

Hut  when  hi*  time  r«mc.  how  tlicn?  I  watchfcl  for  years,  with 
my  own  eyes  nnd  the  eyes  of  otlicrs,  in  liis  sick-room,  when 
froii\  (i.iy  to  (lily  and  fn)m  month  to  montli  his  life  was  scarcely 
winih  a  week's  jHircliase,  and  lie  knew  it  well;  and  I  learned 


there  \\n  the  first  time  in  what  spirit  a  truly  heroic  stnil  confronts 
death.  Iviually  removed  from  fenr  nnd  bravado  ;  mnintaininK 
nhsolule  e(|iianimity  ;  patient  and  forbearing  ;  at  times  suffering 
intensely  but  never  complaining — so  far  from  it,  indeed,  that  he 
would  rarely  acknowleilgo  he  was  in  pain — for  many  weary, 
lingering  months  he  awaited  with  calmness  and  resignation  the 
ineviMble  end,  never  for  a  moment  losing  (not  even,  in  short 
intervals  of  delirium)  the  sweetness  and  charm  o(  his  habitual 
manner,  manifesting  throughout  neither  exaltation  nor  depression, 
maintaining  the  mental  attitu«le  of  a  <  hild  who  starts  on  a 
)«>urney  to  a  foreign  land  of  which  it  knows  nothing  but  in  charge 
of  some  one  in  whom  it  has  complete  trust.  Being  sj)oken  to  one 
ila\  when  supposed  to  be  dying,  by  a  devoted  an<l  intimate 
friend,  and  mention  being  m.ide  of  his  condition  and  the  little 
ho|H*  there  was  of  any  improvement,  he  answereil,  in  his  usual 
riieery,  pleasant  tone:  "Oh,  well,  Mary;  it  is  nil  right 
anyhow." * 

As  in  this  crucial  case,  so  in  all  others.  In  his  book  he 
despised  riches,  in  his  actual  life  he  probably  never  gave  up  one 
day  to  the  pursuit  of  them.  In  his  book  the  ideal  man  gives 
alms  to  every  one  that  asks;  in  actual  life  the  man,  Walt  Wliit- 
man.  gave  his  days  and  nights,  his  labor,  his  love  and  sym|)athy, 
his  time  and  strength,  and  at  last  his  splendid  health,  to  those 
who  needed  help  and  a  friend.     The  ideal  man  in  "  leaves  of 

*Sincrtl)eif  pages  were  written  1  h.ivc  witne«»ed  another  long  and  more 
)>ainful  iickneM,  ending  with  the  ixtet't  death.  The  wunls  written  itand 
good  Rtill,  and,  in  fact,  fail  lo  represent  the  heroism  of  the  man.  I  do  not 
add  more  here  Iwcause  Movacc  I,.  Trrtul>el  will  some  day  f,ivc  the  world 
what  must  prove  an  authoritative  history  of  Wall  Whitman's  List  monthi. 


pars,  with 
)m,  when 
s  .s<  arccly 
Icarnt'd 
oiifronts 
intaining 
«ii(Tcring 
.  that  ho 
y   weary, 
latiuii  the 
ill  short 
hal)itiial 
.'pression, 
rts   on    a 
in  ihargc 
en  to  one 
intimate 
the  little 
l)is  usual 
nil   right 

book  he 
'e  u|)  one 
lan  gives 
lit  VVhit- 
kinpathy, 

to  tliosc 
«aves  of 

unit  more 
llcn  stand 
I  do  not 
the  world 
onthi. 


TllK  MAN   WAir   WlHTMAy.  6<) 

Graia"  is  a  lover  of  his  kind  in  a  new  and  higher  sense — ufTec* 
tion,  devotion,  faith,  pride,  all  the  lofty  passions,  are  in  him  de> 
vcloped  to  an  unprecedented  degree.  Those  who  know  the  ac- 
tual flesh  and  blood  Walt  Whitman  can  bear  witness  that  the 
living  man  fell  not  an  iota  short  of  his  pen  and  ink  pr(  totype. 

Was  he,  then,  perfect?  Yes;  perhaps  as  perfect  as  any  man 
ever  was.  liut  see  what,  in  one  edition  after  another,  over  an<l 
over  again,  he  repeats  of  himself: 

"  Ni)r  is  it  you  nionc  who  know  what  it  in  to  he  evil, 
I  AM)  hi*  who  knew  wh.il  it  wiiit  to  he  evil, 
I  too  knitted  the  ohi  knot  of  contrnricty, 
Klahh'il,  l>iu'4h'd,  rmenied,  lied,  hIoIc,  Knid^'d, 
lliid  ^uilv,  an|{cr,  liiM,  liot  wiithcii  I  d.ired  not  <i|)cak, 
Wa*  witywAfd,  viiin,  greedy,  shallow,  sly,  cowardly,  malignant, 
The  wolf,  the  snake,  the  ho^  not  wanting;  in  tno, 

The  cheating  look,  the  frivolous  wonl,  (he  adulterous  wish,  not  wanting. 
Refusals,  hales,  |>osl|H)nemeiits,  mennncHi,  latineii,  none  of  these   wnnt- 

Moreover,  he  cautions  us  : 
"  Nur  do  those  know  me  hest  who  admire  me  and  vaunlinKly  )>raise  me." 

On  the  other  hand,  his  claims  are  as  colossal  as  his  confessions. 
For  instance : 

"  Siop  this  day  ind  night  with  me  and  you  shall  |)ouess  the  origin  of  alt 
|M>ems." 

"  I  know  I  am  auguit." 

"  I  myself  would  expect  to  \tc  youi  ^oi\." 

"  Divine  nm  I  inside  and  out  and   I  make  holy  whatever  I  touch  or  am 
louch'd  from." 


And  again : 


"  Do  I  contradict  myself? 
Very  well  then  I  contradict  myself; 
(I  am  large,  I  contain  multitudes.) " 


AAer  all,  are  not  evil  and  good,  perfection  and  imperfection, 


t0tmmmm 


— Mim  UK 


70 


/iV  RK  WAi.r  wniTMAy. 


tAAUen  \s>  ge\y,  if  not  entirely,  of  point  of  view  ?  To  thos^d  who 
love  us  '  (lough  att?  we  not  each  |K'rfe«:t  ?  And  to  those  who  dis- 
like us  how  very  imperfect ! 

To  luiuself  every  wise  man  is  a  mixture  of  pood  and  evil. 
*'\Vh)  callest  thou  n\c  good?"  asked  Jesus;  "there  is  none 
good  but  one,  that  is  (Jod." 

Each  man  is  a  ma«e  of  inexplicable  «ontradictions.  But  do 
rjot  all  fpialities  serve  ?  lias  not  each  funciion  and  faculty,  how- 
ever sroininglv  useless  or  base,  its  value  and  purpose  in  the  great 
schcmo  ?  How  would  it  all  look  from  the  highest  vantage 
grotuul  ?  l(  is  said  that,  surveying  and  summing  up  his  total 
creation,  "  (Jod  saw  fvnythiHj^  that  he  had  made,  and  behold  it 
was  v?ry  g^Hnl." 

(>urMipp(>sed  primitive  Aryan,  waking  up  to-<lay  the  same  man 
he  was  when  he  foil  asleep,  would  have  (if  any  at  all)  only  the  most 
rudimentary  sense  of  nuisical  harmony,  of  fragrance,  of  color; 
his  intellect,  moral  nature  an«l  spiritual  intuitions  being  propor- 
titM\ately  imdcvolopod.  What  use  to  talk  to  him  of  the  beauty 
of  the  )iluniage  o{  birds,  of  the  tints  of  the  i>etals  of  flowers? 
What  use  to  take  hii\i  to  hear  the  («»itter»i;immerung  ?  The  funeral 
march  for  Siegfried  would  be  to  him  so  much  noise.  A  rose 
ganlcn  w»>uld  have  no  more  fragian«e  than  a  potato  field.  The 
philosophy,  science,  art,  poetry,  religion,  the  higher  social  virtues, 
<if  U>  day,  would  all  1h?  to  him  as  i;  they  were  not  ;  he  would  l)e 
utterly  unable  to  see,  feel  or  in  any  way  realii-.e  them.  Many 
things  in  the  new  world  about  him  would  !!cem  by  comparison 
with  those  in  the  old  world  that  he  would  remember,  nonsen- 
sical, immoral,  coarse,  ext^^vagant,  foolish,  alfccteil,  irreligious 
— for  he  would  have  his  own  idc.^s  of  ri'ligion,  morality  and  of 
the  social  proprieties.  Doubtless,  at  the  same  time,  he  would 
dimly  re<'ognize  the  (to  him)  striking,  preterhuman  qualities  in 
the  men  about  him.  Ihii  if  he  could  be  made,  all  at  once,  to  see 
and  hear,  feel  and  know,  in  the  modern  sense,  of  those  terms  ? 
What  an  awakening  would  that  be  ! 

l^et  us  wake  up !  Let  us  o|>en  otir  eyes  and  see  the  new  world 
as  revealetl  and  ilhistrateil  by  this  man.  I,et  us  realize,  if  we 
can.  who  and  what  he  is  who  so  long  has  labot^d  for  and  among 


us 


nos«  who 
who  dis- 

tnd  evil. 
Ib  none 

Hut  do 
My,  liow- 
khe  great 

vantage 
|liis  total 

rl.old  it 


rtiK  MAX   WALT  WtnTMAX. 


7» 


lis  ;  who  has  so  murh  aspired,  achieved,  enjoyetl  and  RulTered  for 
and  with  tiH ;  and  who,  in  rnlmness  and  ronfidence,  awaits  now 
the  change  he  has  so  long  and  well  propareil  for. 

Smh  a  man  as  Wall  Whitman  could  not  in  the  nature  of  thingji 
l»c  understood  and  appreciated  by  the  world  at  large  cluring  his 
lifetime.  As  Emerson  says  of  the  ideal  poet:  "Thou  shait  Ik; 
known  oidy  to  thine  own,  and  they  shall  console  thee  with 
tendcresl  love." 

Nothing  l)ut  the  intense  affection  he  has  aroused  in  certain 
hearts  could  have  led  even  to  his  partial  recognition  by  the  few 
who  now  imperfectly  feel  and  see  the  beauty  and  majesty  of  his 
character.  Hui  as  surely  as  the  earth  continues  to  revolve  around 
the  sun  and  mankind  to  live  upon  it,  so  certainly  will  the  day 
come  when  he  will  take  his  place  with  the  greatest  ami  best  of 
llu>se  who  have  led  the  race  of  man  onward  and  upward  toward 
spiritual  freedom  and  light. 


.1 


i   \ 


■MM 


Prof.  Dowdkn's  Westminster  Rn-ino  article  last  fall  made  us  all  pleased 
&  proud.  He  and  I  have  since  had  some  correspondence,  and  I  have  come 
to  consider  him,  like  yourself,  fully  as  near  to  me  in  personal  as  literary 
relations. 

I  have  received  word  direct  from  Mrs.  Gilchrist.  Nothing  in  my  life,  ov  my 
literary  fortunes,  has  brought  me  more  comfort  and  support  every  way — noth- 
ing has  more  spiritually  soothed  me  than  the  warm  appreciation  of  friendship 
of  that  true,  full-grown  woman — (I  still  use  the  broad,  grand  old  Saxon  word, 
our  highest  need). 

I  have  twice  received  letters  from  Tennyson — and  very  cordial  and  hearty 
letters.     He  sends  me  an  invitation  to  visit  him 

I  deeply  appreciate  Swinburne's  kindness  and  approbation.  I  ought  to  have 
written  him  to  acknowledge  the  very  great  compliment  of  his  poem  addressed 
to  me  in  "  Songs  before  Sunrise,"  but  am  just  the  most  wretched  &  procras- 
tinating letter-writer  alive.  If  I  should  indeed  come  to  England  I  will  call 
upon  him  among  the  first,  and  personally  thank  him 

I  received  some  time  since  a  most  frank  &  kind  letter,  and  brief  printed 
poem,  from  John  Addington  Symon<ls,  of  Bristol,  England.  The  poem  "  Love 
and  Death,"  I  read  and  re-read  with  admiration. 

I  received  Koden  Noel's  "Study  "  in  Dark  Blue  for  October  and  Novem- 
ber last,  and  appreciate  it — and  also  a  letter  from  himself. 

Walt  Whitman  to  William  Michael Ruuc'ti,  187a. 


II 


LETTERS  IN  SICKNESS  :  WASHINGTON,  187J. 


ifc,  Ok  my 

ly— nolh- 

riciulship 

;oii  word, 


Bf  WALT  WHITMAN. 


[The  letters  which  follow  have  great  autobiographic  value.  They  form 
one  cut  out  of  a  long  series,  covering  almost  the  entire  period  of  Walt 
Whitman's  stay  in  Washington,  written  by  him  to  his  mother,  and  found 
at  his  death  carefully  preserved,  in  bulk,  among  his  papers.  They  give  with- 
out circumlocution  or  ornament  an  effective  chapter  which  shafied  and  colored 
the  remaining  twenty  years  of  his  life.  There  has  l)een  no  intention  or  effort 
to  edit  the  letters  into  accustomed  literary  forms,  or  in  any  way  to  depart  from 
ir  apologia  for  their  curious  and  delicious  simplicity.  In  nomenclature  and 
all  else  they  have  l)een  left  as  they  were  written. —  TiiK  Editors.] 

Jan.  26,  1873,  Sunday  afternoon. — Dearest  mother,  I  have 
been  not  weH  for  two  or  three  days,  but  am  better  to-day.  I 
have  had  a  slight  stroke  of  paralysis,  on  my  left  side,  and  es- 
pecially the  leg — occurred  Thursday  night  last,  &  I  liave  been 
laid  up  since — I  am  writing  this  in  my  room,  535  15th  st  as  I 
ai  .  not  able  to  get  out  at  present — btit  the  doctor  gives  me  good 
hopes  of  being  out  and  at  my  work  in  a  few  days — He  says  it  is 
nothing  but  what  I  shall  recover  from  in  a  few  days — Mother 
you  must  not  fieel  uneasy — though  I  know  you  will — but  I 
thought  I  would  write  &  tell  you  the  exact  truth — neither  better 
nor  worse — 

.1  have  a  firsi  rate  physician  Dr.  Drinkard — I  have  some  very 
attentive  friends,  (&  if  I  have  occasion  can  &  will  telegraph 
to  you  or  George — but  do  not  expect  to  have  any  need) — 

I  hav?  had  no  word  from  St  Louis  or  any  where  by  letter  for 
some  days — The  weather  here  is  mostly  stormy  and  cold  the  last 
week — I  rec'd  your  last  letter  with  Jeff's — it  is  ^  past  one — 
Lizzie  the  servarK  girl  has  just  brought  me  up  some  dinner,  oyster 
stew,  toast,  tea,  &c,  very  good — I  have  eaten  little  for  two  days, 
but  am  to-day  eating  I)etter — I  wrote  to  Mat  early  last  week— 

(73) 


•I; 


f    'i; 


h\ 


ir/JWK<rwHww!Miin  mimmwmm 


74 


IN  RE  WAIT  WHITMAN. 


Later— I  have  been  sitting  up  eating  my  dinnr,  — Lovo  to  yo'A 
•dearest  mother,  and  to  George  and  Lou.  1  will  write  again 
middle  of  the  week. 


Jan.  2  J,  Monday  a/if  moon,  y^  past  3. — Dc^.cst  mot  lie.  -,  f^.ATXii^ 
you  might  worry  about  me  I  write  to  say  I  an'  doing  ver)-  v/ell  ''n- 
deed — (I  understand  the  papers  are  making  me  out  very  sick  in- 
dectl — It  is  not  so,) — I  wrote  you  Sunday  which  I  suppose  you 
rec'd — I  may  not  write  again  for  two  or  three  days. 

The  doctor  has  just  been  here — says  I  am  getting  along  first 
rate — will  probably  be  out,  and  about  as  well  as  usual  in  a  week — 
It  is  a  heavy  snow  storm  here  to-day — I  have  many  callers,  lujt 
they  are  not  admitted — as  I  don't  care  to  see  them — I  write  this 
sitting  on  the  side  of  the  b?d,  after  4 — Don't  be  frightened  should 
you  may-be  see  or  hear  of  any  thing  in  the  pai>ers — you  know  they 
killed  me  off  once  before — it  is  just  sunset — the  sun  is  shining 
out  bright  at  last. 

Jan.  29,  535  Fifteenth  St.,  Wednestiay  afternoon. — Dearest 
mother,  I  am  writing  this  lying  in  bed — the  doctor  wishes  me  to 
keep  as  much  in  bed  as  possible — but  I  have  to  keep  in,  as  I  cannot 
move  yet  without  grc.it  difficulty,  &  I  am  liable  to  dizziness  & 
nausea,  at  times,  on  trying  to  move,  or  even  sitting  up — Rat  I  am 
certainly  over  the  worst  of  it,  &  really — though  slowly-  -■w/r^y 
i>/(,'.  The  doctor  says  there  is  no  doubt  of  it — yesterday  after- 
noon I  eat  something  like  a  meal  for  the  fin,t  time— boiled 
chicken,  &  some  soup  with  bread  broken  up  in  t — relished  it 
well — I  still  have  many  callers — only  a  few  particular  ov.es  are 
admitted  to  see  mc — Mrs.  O'Connor  comes  &  a  youiig  woman 
named  Mary  Cole — Mrs.  Asliton  has  sent  for  me  to  be  brought 
to  her  liouse,  to  be  taken  care  of — of  course  I  do  not  accept  her 
oflVr — they  live  in  grand  s'»'le  &  I  should  be  more  bothered 
than  benefit. cJ  by  their  rcnr.enents  &  luxuries,  servants,  &c. 

Mother  I  want  you  to  ki.-.v  wruly,  that  I  do  not  want  for  any 
thing — .ns  to  all  the  little  extra  fixings  and  stip.'rfluities,  I  never 
<iid  care  for  them  in  health,  &  they  only  annoy  me  in  sickness 
— I  have  a  good  bed — a  fire — as  much  grub  as  I  wish  &  what- 


N  to  yo", 
|te  again 


sick  in- 
pose  you 

>ng  first 

week — 

fers,  1  „it 

frite  tl.is 

should 

ow  tliey 

shining 


LETTERS  IN  SfCKNESS:    WASHINGTON,  1873. 


7S 


i'ver  I  wish — &  two  or  ihice  ^^.jd  friends  here.  So  I  want  you 
'  ■  no*  feel  at  all  uneasy — iis  I  write  Peter  Doyle  is  i,itting  by  the 
window  reading — he  and  Charles  Eldridge  regularly  come  in  & 
do  wliatever  I  want  &  are  bc'.'i  very  helpful  to  n.r-  '.ne  conies 
day  time,  &  one  eveni-"T — 

I  had  a  good  night's  sleep  last  night — My  mind  is  just  as  clear 
as  ever — &  has  been  all  the  time — (I  have  not  been  at  all  down 
hearted  either) — (My  January  pay  is  due  me,  &  as  soon  as  I 
get  up  I  shall  forward  you  your  $ao). 

Dear  sister  Lou — Your  letter  came  this  morning  &  was  very 
pleasant  to  get  it — I  shall  be  getting  well  soon — am  on  a  fair 
way  to  it  now — 

— Latest  Yi  past  4. — I  have  just  set  up  &  had  my  bed  made 
by  Pete — I  am  already  beginning  to  feel  something  like  myself 
— will  write  in  2  days. 

Jan.  31,  Friday  noon. — Dearest  mother,  I  write  this  lying  in 
bed  yet — but  I  sit  up  several  times  during  the  day,  now,  for  a 
few  minutes  at  a  time — am  gradually  gaining  the  use  of  my  left 
arm  &  leg — (the  right  side  has  not  been  affected  at  allY— think 
I  shall  be  able  to  move  rotnid  a  little  by  Sunday — The  Doctor 
has  just  been — he  says  I  am  doing  very  well — 

John  Burroughs  is  here  tem|)orarily — he  comes  in  often — 
Eldridge  and  Peter  Doyle  are  regular  still,  helping  &  lifting 
&  nursing  me — but  I  feel  now  that  I  sliall  soon  be  able  to  help 
myself — I  slept  quite  well  last  night — It  has  been  very  cold  in- 
deed here,  they  say — but  I  have  not  felt  it — as  I  write,  it  looks 
pleasant  and  bright,  the  sun  shining  in  real  cheerful — I  see  by 
sister  Lou's  letter  that  you  had  no  news  from  St.  Louis — poor, 
poor  Mat,  I  think  about  her  often,  as  I  am  lying  here — I  have 
not  written  to  Han  since  I  had  the  paralysis — Mother  you  might 
send  one  of  my  letters  to  her,  Han,  when  you  next  write — (this 
one,  or  any) — Say  I  .sent  my  love,  &  I  will  be  up  before 
long- 
Well  Mother  dear,  and  Sister  Lou  and  Brother  George,  I  will 
close  for  the  present,  for  this  week — will  write  Sunday — but  I 
understand  the  mails  are  a  little  irregular  this  weather. 


i 


,i4^»^.r^^,..«..— »-,.,,  ....r-^ — ■■■■~~-iWimriimiffliBwnwiitiirflM»i>tiiriwiwirii>i»M»»ii" 


76 


JN  RE  WALT  WHITMAN. 


if 


Feb.  2,  Sunday  afternoon,  ]4  P^ni  3- — Dearest  mother,  I  am  sit- 
ting up  on  the  sidt*  of  );he  bed  writing  this.  Every  thing  is  going 
on  as  well  with  me  as  I  could  expect.  I  rec'd  your  letter  dear 
mother — you  may  rest  assured  that  I  write  the  exact  facts  about  my 
sickness — I  am  not  gaining  very  fast,  but  it  is  sure — I  am  on  the 
gain  every  day  a  little — I  still  have  a  good  deal  of  distress  in  the 
head — the  quieter  1  am  left  by  general  visitors  the  more  com- 
fortable I  am — I  slept  fairly  last  night — &  eat  quite  a  nice 
breakfast  this  morning — (dinner  I  left  mostly  untasted) — I  bave 
all  the  attention  I  need,  &  food  &c. 

I  will  write  toward  the  middle  of  the  week — Write  whether  this 
and  the  money  come  safe. 

Love  to  you  dear  mother,  &  George  &  Lou — &  don't  be 
uneasy  about  me.  I  have  been  up  by  the  window  looking  out 
on  the  river  &  scenery — it  is  beautiful  weather  now — they 
have  sent  over  &  paid  me  my  January  pay — all  are  very 
kind. 

Feb.  4,  Tuesday  afternoon,  3  d  clock. — Dearest  mother,  I  wrote 
you  Sunday  enclosing  the  ^20,  which  I  suppose  you  rec'd  all 
safe. 

I  am  still  anchored  here  in  my  bed — I  am  sitting  up  now  on  the 
side — Mrs.  O'Connor  has  just  been  to  see  me — I  was  glad  to  see 
her — I  am  still  improving,  but  slowly — the  doctor  did  not  come 
yesterday,  which  I  suppose  is  a  good  sign — I  expect  him  this 
afternoon  or  evening — he  evidently  thinks  I  am  on  the  gain — 
Pete  has  just  come  in,  &  wil!  take  this  to  the  p.  o.  for  rne— 
Love  to  you  dear  mother,  &  to  all. 


roast  ap 
favorabl 
Moth( 
have  wi 
which  t 
I  kee 
Love  to 
I  hav' 
bed- 
compan 


Feb.  7,  Friday  afternoon,  y^  past  ?. — Dearest  mother,  I  am  still 
anchored  here — sit  up  some,  but  only  for  a  short  spell  at  a  time — 
am  feeble,  and  \\.\yt  distress  in  the  head — these  are  the  worst 
features— but  am  gradually  regaining  the  use  of  my  left  limbs 
— very,  very  slowly,  but  certainly  gaining — Doctor  only  comes 
now  every  other  day — 

As  I  write  Mrs.  O'Coinor  is  sitting  here  in  the  room,  mend- 
ing bome  stockings  &c  for  me — She  has  brought  me  some  nice 


LETTERS  IN  SICKNESS:  WASHINGTON,   1873. 


77 


I  am  sit- 
is  going 

ter  dear 
jout  my 
on  the 

IS  in  the 

re  coni- 
a  nice 

-I  bave 


roast  apple  in  a  tumbler — It  is  a  dark  wet  day  to-day — not  very 
favorable — 

Mother  dear  I  rec'd  your  letter,  acknowledging  the  money — I 
have  written  a  short  letter  to  Hannah,  &  also  one  to  Jeff — 
which  they  must  have  rec'd  by  this  time — 

I  keep  up  my  spirits  very  well — do  not  need  for  anything — 
Love  to  you,  &  all  dearest  mother. 

I  have  tacked  your  picture  up  on  the  wall  at  the  foot  of  the 
bed — the  one  I  like — it  looks  as  natural  as  can  be — &  is  quite 
company  for  me — as  I  am  alone  a  good  deal,  (&  prefer  to  be). 

Feb.  9,  Sunday  afternoon,  4  0^ clock — Dearest  mother,  I  suppose 
you  have  rec'd  word  from  Jeff  that  poor  Mat  was  sinking,  &  you 
might  expect  to  hear  of  her  death  at  any  moment — that  she  was  a 
very  great  sufferer  when  he  wrote.  I  got  his  letter  dated  Feb.  5th, 
yesterday, — he  said  he  was  writing  to  you  same  time — He  wrote 
very  serious  but  calm — Mother  I  will  not  write  much  to-day — I 
feel  so  bad  about  Mat — I  am  still  improving — but  slowly 
though  I  realize  some  improvement  every  day — my  head  is  easier 
to-day. 

Feb.  10,  Monday  afternoon,  3  0^ clock — Dearest  mother,  I  send 
you  Jeff's  letter,  rec'd  this  morning,  as  it  may  possibly  be  later 
than  any  you  have — I  had  a  very  good  day  yesterday,  &  the 
best  night  last  night  I  hare  had  for  a  week — Doctor  Drinkard 
has  just  been  in — he  says  I  am  progressing  the  very  best — In  a 
day  or  two  more  I  think  I  shall  get  out — or  to  the  front  door, 
at  any  rate — 

Dear  sister  Lou,  I  rec'd  your  letter  this  morning — I  will  see 
how  I  feel,  when  I  get  better — about  coming  on — Don't  think 
of  such  a  thing  as  George's  coming  on  here  for  me — You  may  be 
sure  I  shall  be  with  you  all  in  as  good  health  as  ever,  yet — & 
before  very  long — to-day  I  liave  been  sadly  pestered  with  visitors 
— every  thing  goes  well  with  me,  except  the  slowness  of  my  im- 
provement. 

Feb.  13,  Thursday  night,  8  o'clock — Dearest  mother,  It  is  a  dis- 


;i 


MMM 


78 


IN  RE  WALT  WHITMAN. 


nial  winter  snow  storm  outside,  and  as  I  "  ite  I  am  sitting  here 
by  a  good  wood  fire  in  the  stove — have  otm  alone  all  the  even- 
ing— I  sit  up  as  much  as  I  can,  eaiiecially  evenings — as  I  sleep 
better  afterwards — I  rec'd  a  letter  from  Jeff  to-day,  Matty  was  as 
well  as  at  last  accounts — about  the  same — no  worse — I  also  rec'd 
a  letter  from  Heyde — he  said  Han  was  well  as  usual. 

I  have  been  sitting  up  nearly  all  day — &  have  less  distress  in 
the  head  than  I  have  had, — which  is  a  great  gain — 

I  had  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Price  to-day — she  invites  me  to  come 
and  stop  awhile  there,  as  soon  as  I  can  journey — 

Mother  it  is  kind  of  company  to  write  to  you — it  is  very  lone- 
some to  sit  here  all  the  evening  in  my  room — about  9  Charles 
Eldridge  comes  in  &  assists  me  to  soak  my  feet  in  hot  water, 
&  then  I  turn  in — (I  have  my  trousers  on  this  evening,  first  time 
in  3  weeks). 

Friday  noon,  Feb.  14. — Mother  I  am  sitting  up  again  to-day 
— passed  a  comfortable  night,  &  as  soon  as  it  is  favorable 
weather  I  shall  try  to  get  started  for  outside — first,  to  get  down 
stairs — &  then  perhaps  across  the  street. 

3  o'clock — I  have  just  got  a  letter  from  Jeff,  which  I  enclose 
as  it  is  the  latest — Mrs.  O'Connor  has  just  been  to  see  me— 
brought  a  basket  of  nice  things — Mother  dear  I  hope  you  will 
have  a  pleasant  Sunday — I  send  you  Harper's  and  Frank  Leslie's 
— I  am  having  a  very  fair  day  to-day — it  is  moderate  &•  pleasant 
here,  but  mostly  cloudy — I  have  been  quite  occupied  wiit'ng 
several  letters  about  business — have  sat  up  all  day,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  an  hour — 

Love  to  you  dear  mother. 

Feb.  17,  Monday  afternoon,  }4  Past  3. — Dearest  mother,  I 
have  been  down  stairs,  &  out  on  the  street  this  afternoon — it  is 
such  fine  weather,  (after  the  bad  storm  of  yesterday) — I  got  along 
very  slowly,  &  didn't  go  far — but  it  was  a  great  thing  after 
being  kept  in  for  over  three  weeks-:- 

I  rec'd  a  short  letter  from  Jeff  again  to-day  dated  13th — noth- 
ing different  with  Mat.  I  rec'd  your  letter  Saturday — I  hope 
now  to  inr.prove  in  walking,  &  then  I  shall  begin  to  feel  all 


right— (b 
friend  ac( 

Dear 
all. 

Feb.  I 
pose  yov 
stairs  & 
bear, 
Jeff  to-t 
the  nigV 
departui 
Thiiu 
slowly- 
waiting 
to  you  I 

Feb. 
with  d< 
of  the 
been  a 
scribed 
just  M 
better. 

Fe' 

same  1 
any  m 
it  has 
writte 
you  r 
upbj 

Ft 
here 
som( 
app< 


J'ng  here 
|he  even- 
I  sleep 
[y  was  as 
ho  rec'd 


stress  in 
ho  come 

(ry  lone- 

I  Charles 

water, 

rst  time 


LETTERS  IN  SICKNESS:  WASHINGTON,   1873. 


79 


right — (but  am  still  very  feeble  &  slow) — Peter  Doyle  &  another 
friend  accompanied  me  out — 

Dear  mother  I  hope  this  will  find  you  feeling  well.  Love  to 
all. 

Feb.  19,  IVeJnesday  afternoon,  3  o'clock. — Mother  dear  I  sup- 
pose you  got  a  letter  from  me  telling  you  that  I  had  been  down 
stairs  &  out  on  Monday — it  was  more  exertion  than  I  could 
bear,  and  I  have  not  been  so  well  since. — I  got  two  letters  from 
Jeff  to-day,  the  last  one  dated  the  16th — Mat  had  rested  well 
the  night  before — poor,  poor  Mat,  I  am  ready  to  hear  of  her 
departure  any  day — it  seems  terrible — 

Things  are  going  on  as  well  as  could  be  expected  with  me,  but 
slowly — I  overdid  the  matter  day  before  yesterday  and  am  now 
waiting — I  am  sitting  up  by  the  stove  alone  writing  this.  Love 
to  you  dearest  mother,  and  to  all — 

Feb.  20,  Thursday  afternoon. — Well  mother  its  over  at  last 
with  dear  Matty — I  got  a  dispatch  of  her  death  on  the  evening 
of  the  19th — I  suppose  you  have  too,  of  course — It  must  have 
been  a  relief  from  very  great  suffering,  as  Jeff's  letters  of  late  de- 
scribed it — poor  dear  sister,  she  has  many  real  mourners — I  have 
just  written  to  Han  about  it — I  am  about  the  same — rather 
better. 

Fe'  21,  Friday  afternoon. — Dearest  mother,  I  am  about  the 
same  to-day,  rather  on  the  improve — have  not  tried  to  get  out 
any  more — feel  pretty  much  depressed  about  Mat's  death,  (but 
it  has  been  to  her  no  doubt,  a  relief  from  great  pain) — Have  just 
written  a  few  lines  to  Jeff — Wrote  yesterday  to  Han — Mother 
you  must  not  get  gloomy, — Feel  better  as  I  write — I  am  sitting 
up  by  the  stove. 

Feb.  23^/,  Sunday  afternoon,  ]4  p^^t  two. — Well  mother  dear 
here  I  sit  again  in  the  rocking  chair  by  the  stove — I  have  just  eat 
some  dinner  a  little  piece  of  fowl  &  some  toast  and  tea — my 
appetite  is  good  enough — &  I  have  plenty  brought  to  me — ^I 


m 


«e 


IN  RE  WALT   WHITMAN. 


have  been  sitting  up  all  day — liave  some  bad  spells,  but  am  de- 
cidedly gaining  upon  the  whole — think  I  have  fully  recovered 
where  I  was  a  week  ago,  and  even  a  little  better — went  down 
stairs  yesterday  and  out  for  five  minutes  into  the  street — &  shall 
do  so  again  this  afternoon — as  I  think  it  did  me  good  yesterday 
— though  I  was  very  tired,  on  returning — as  I  have  to  go  down  and 
up  4  flights  of  stairs — The  doctor  comes  every  day — (I  must  tell 
you  again  I  have  a  first-rate  doctor,  I  tiiink  he  understands  my 
case  exactly — I  consider  myself  very  lucky  in  having  him) — 
Mother  yesterday  was  a  very  serious  day  with  me  here — I  was 
not  so  very  sick,  but  I  kept  thinking  all  the  time  it  was  the  day 
of  Matty's  funeral — Every  few  minutes  all  day  it  would  come  up 
in  my  mind — I  suppose  it  was  the  same  with  you — Mother  your 
letter  came  Friday  afternoon — it  was  a  very  good  letter,  &  after 
reading  it  twice  I  enclosed  it  in  one  to  Han — she  must  have 
got  it  Saturday  night — There  are  great  preparations  here  for  4th 
of  March, — inauguration — if  you  &  I  had  a  house  here,  we 
would  have  George  &  Lou  come  on  &  see  the  show,  for  I  have 
no  doubt  it  will  be  the  finest  ever  seen  here — (but  I  am  in  hopes 
to  be  able  to  get  away  for  all  that) — 

}4  past  4. — Mother  I  have  just  been  down  &  out  doors- 
walked  half  a  block — &  have  come  back — Wfn/  all  alone — (got 
a  little  assistance  at  the  steps)  this  is  the  most  successful  raid  yet 
— &  I  really  begin  to  feel  something  like  myself — Hope  this  will 
find  you  all  right  dearest  mother — 

Feb.  26,  Wednesday  noon. — Dearest  mother,  I  am  getting 
along  real  well,  upon  the  whole — I  went  out  and  over  to  the 
office  yesterday — went  in  &  sat  down  at  my  desk  a  few  minutes 
— It  was  my  greatest  effort  yet,  and  I  was  afraid  I  had  overshot 
the  mark  again,  as  I  felt  dizzy  and  tired  last  night — But  to-day 
I  feel  getting  along  all  right — I  am  going  out  a  little  to-day,  but 
not  much — I  feel  now  over  the  worst  of  my  fit  of  sickness  & 
comparatively  comfortable. 

Poor  Martha — the  thouglits  of  her  still  come  up  in  my  mind, 
as  I  sit  here  a  great  deal  of  the  time  alone — Poor  Jeff,  &  poor 
children  too— 


I  have  re 
still  living 
got  a  secon 
out,  &  get 
&  then  I  w 
days,  or  th 
to-day  wit 
beginning 
Everyth 
of  March  i 
it  all- 
Love  to 

March 
your  letter 
— every  tl 
in  nearly 
Hannah  t 
&  me  to 
going  off" 
To-day 
over  for  t 
Mrs.  O'C 
was  so  pi 
but  stopt 
have  just 
sit  here 
getting  i 
apply  ni; 
written  I 
evening 
for  last 
got  a  le 
John  Bi 
to  Wasl 
for  this 

&aU. 
6 


LETTERS  IN  SICKNESS:  WASHINGTON,   1873. 


8x 


I  have  received  a  letter  from  Lillie  Townsend, — Aunt  Sally  is 
still  living  and  well  as  usual,  ^  nothing  very  new — I  have  just 
got  a  second  note  from  Mrs.  Price — Mother  I  shall  try  to  get 
out,  &  get  my  Feb.  pay,  I  have  to  get  it  fiom  the  old  office 
&  then  I  will  send  you  your  i,zo. — (I  hope  within  a  couple  of 
days,  or  three  at  most) — I  expect  Mrs,  Burroughs  here  probably 
to-day  with  a  carriage  to  take  me  out  riding — so  you  see  I  am 
beginning  to  sport  around — 

Everything  here  now  is  inauguration — &  will  be  till  the  4th 
of  March  is  over — for  my  part  I  want  to  get  out  of  the  way  of 
it  all- 
Love  to  you  Mammy  dear,  &  to  Georgey  &  Lou  &  all. 


March  7,  Friday  afternoon,  2  o'clock. — Dear  mother  I  got 
your  letter  yesterday — I  was  glad  to  hear  all  the  things  you  wrote 
— every  thing,  however  little,  is  interesting,  when  you  are  kept 
in  nearly  all  the  time — I  have  rrc'd  a  very  good  letter  from 
Hannah  this  morning — she  writes  in  good  spirits,  &  wants  you 
&  me  to  come  up  there  next  summer — says  Heyde  thinks  of 
going  off  then  to  the  Adirondacks  on  a  trip — 

To-day  is  very  jileasant  indeed — the  cold  spell  seems  to  be 
over  for  the  present — I  have  been  out  about  noon  quite  a  while — 
Mrs.  O'Connor  came  to  visit  me,  &  as  I  was  all  dressed,  &  it 
was  so  pleasant,  I  went  out, — she  convoyed  me — I  didn't  go  far, 
but  stopt  in  at  one  or  two  places,  near  by — have  now  returned, 
have  just  eat  a  bite  of  lunch,  and  am  feeling  (inite  comfortable — 
sit  here  now  alone  writing  this — as  I  told  you  in  my  last,  I  am 
getting  .along  well,  but  it  is  very,  very  slow — I  cannot  begin  to 
apply  my  brain  to  regular  work  yet — though,  for  all  that,  I  have 
written  two  or  three  little  poems  for  the  Graphic  a  N.  Y.  daily 
evening  paper  just  commenced — (one  of  them  was  in  the  number 
for  last  Wednesday) — they  pay  me  moderately — I  was  glad  you 
got  a  letter  from  Mary — if  you  write  tell  her  I  am  improving — 
John  Burroughs  is  just  in  to  see  me,  having  returned  for  a  while 
to  Washington —  Well,  mother  dear,  I  will  bid  you  good  bye 
for  this  week — Love  to  you  &  to  Brother  George  &  Sister  Lou 
&all. 
6 


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*» 


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IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-S) 


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1.8 


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Hiotographic 

Sciences 
Corporation 


"^V 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)  S72-4S03 


r 


82 


IN  BE   WALT   WHITMAN. 


i  » 


March  9,  Sunday  afternoon,  5  0^ clock. — Dearest  mother,  I 
will  not  vvite  much  to-day,  as  I  have  just  come  in  from  being 
out  over  tivo  hours,  &  I  feel  quite  i  red.  I  cannot  walk  any 
to  speak  of,  but  I  have  been  out  taking  a  ride  in  the  cars,  and 
sitting  in  the  parks  a  little  while.  Peter  Doyle  has  been  with 
me.  It  is  as  pleasant  and  warm  as  summer  here  to-day.  I  have 
not  rec'd  any  letters  for  the  last  two  days — I  suppose  you  got  my 
letter  Saturday — I  have  been  out  more  to-day  than  any  day  yet, 
as  it  has  been  so  warm  and  fine — Love  to  you  Mama  dear  &  to  all. 

Mother  write  me  what  envelopes  you  would  like  to  have  me 
direct,  &  enclose  you — I  have  not  been  over  to  the  office  yet, 
except  that  one  time  ten  or  twelve  days  ago. 

March  13,  Thursday,  2  o'clock  p.  m. — Dearest  mother,  I 
wrote  you  a  short  &  very  hurried  letter  last  night,  only  a  few 
minutes  before  the  mail  closed — To-day  Mrs.  O'Connor  has  just 
paid  me  a  pleasant  visit — &  I  have  been  eating  my  lunch  of  a 
roast  apple  &  biscuit — I  am  feeling  about  the  same — I  suppose 
you  are  most  tired,  &  perhaps  a  little  suspicious  of  hearing  I 
am  "about  the  same^^ — Well  I  am  quite  tired  myself,  &  want 
much  to  get  out,  &  go  to  work,  &  go  about — But  I  just  have 
to  make  the  best  of  it,  &  console  myself  with  realizing  that 
disagreeable  as  it  is,  it  might  be  a  great  deal  worse — &  tha:  i 
am  feeling  free  from  pain  &  comparatively  comfortable,  & 
that  it  cannot  be  very  long  before  I  shall  have  the  good  use  of 
my  limbs  again — So  I  just  try  to  keep  patient  &  wait — &  you 
must  too,  dearest  mother — 

I  got  a  good  letter  from  Hattie  to-day,  dated  March  9 — she 
says  she  was  writing  to  you — so  I  suppose  you  have  one  too — 
They  seem  to  like  it  at  Mr.  &  Mrs.  Buckley's. 

Mother  I  got  your  letter  of  Monday  and  Lou's  of  Sunday — 
it  is  an  afTection  of  the  leg  from  the  knee  downward,  martially 
helpless — but  the  principal  trouble  is  yet  in  the  head,  &  so 
easily  getting  fatigued — my  whole  body  feels  heavy,  &  some- 
times my  head.  Still,  I  go  out  a  little  every  day  almost — accom- 
panied by  Peter,  or  some  one — sometimes  spend  an  hour  out,  but 
cannot  walk,  except  a  very  little  indeed,  very  slowly  indeed— 


LE 

Mother  in  « 
the  matter 

March  x 
it  is  very  i 
tween  two 
afternoon- 
John  Bi 
or  let  his  1 
here   agaii 
wife  is  he 
gives  a  vt 
front)— in 
good,  the; 
Well  n 
little  fron 

March 
well  to-d 
— I  supp 
been  her 
think  me 
here  for 
—but  it 
have  had 
moments 
afternooi 
it,  so  fat 
Moth< 
so  clutrn 
talked  t( 
think  al 
Mrs. 

Mari 
on  the 
try  ta  i 


pother,  I 
fom  being 
Iwalk  any 
I  cars,  and 

3een  with 
I  have 
h  got  my 

day  yet, 

&  to  all. 

have  me 
Ifiice  yet, 


lother,    I 
ily  a  few 
r  has  just 
ich  of  a 
suppose 
learing  I 
,  &  want 
ust  have 
ing  that 
tha:  i 
iable,   & 
d  use  of 
— &  yon 

1  9 — she 
le  too — 

inday — 
•artially 
&  so 
:  some- 
accom- 
ut,  but 
ieed— 


LETTER^I  IN  SICKNESS:  WASHINGTON,  1873. 


83. 


Mother  in  my  looks  you  would  hardly  know  the  least  thing  had  been 
the  matter  with  Pie — I  am  neither  pale  nor  thin  in  the  least — 

March  14,  Fn  day  forenoon. — I  am  sitting  here  in  my  room — 
it  is  very  pleasart  out  apparently — I  generally  go  out  a  little  be- 
tween two  &  three,  and  shall  probably  get  out  a  little  this 
afternoon — 

John  Burroughs  has  been  on  here  again — he  is  trying  to  sell 
or  let  his  house,  &  does  not  succeed  very  satisfactorily — he  left 
here  again  by  the  train  last  evening  &  returned  north — his 
wife  is  here — Mother  I  send  the  Harper's  Weekly — that  picture 
gives  a  very  good  idea  of  the  Capitol,  (what  they  call  the  east 
front) — in  the  extra  is  a  picture  of  the  inauguration  ball — very 
good,  they  say — you  must  look  over  them  Sunday. 

Well  mother  dear  it  is  now  after  12 — I  expect  to  get  out  a. 
little  from  2  to  3 — Love  to  you  &  to  Lou  &  George  &  all. 

March  17,  Monday  afterncon. — Well  mother  dear  I  feel  quite 
well  to-day  considering — in  good  spirits,  &  free  from  any  pain 
— I  suppose  you  got  my  letter  Saturday  last — The  doctor  has 
been  here  to-day,  first  time  in  three  days — (so  you  see  he  don't 
think  me  a  very  critical  case).  We  have  had  real  March  weather 
here  for  two  or  three  days,  strong  &  sudden  winds,  &  dust 
— but  it  is  pleasanter  to-day — it  is  now  about  J^  past  i — I 
have  had  my  lunch  &  Mrs.  O'Connor  has  come  in  for  a  few 
moments — I  have  a  little  piece  in  the  N.  Y.  Graphic  of  Saturday- 
afternoon,  March  17 — it  is  a  daily  afternoon  paper — I  write  for 
it,  so  far — they  pay  moderately — 

Mother,  I  feel  to-day  as  if  I  was  getting  well — (but  my  leg  is; 
so  clumsy  yet — &  my  head  has  to  avoid  much  talking  or  being 
talked  to) — I  hope  this  will  find  you  all  right,  dearest  mother — I 
think  about  you  much — 

Mrs.  O'Connor  wishes  me  to  give  her  love  to  you. 

.  March  21,  Friday  noon. — Dearest  mother,  I  am  still  feeling. 
on  the  gain  to-day — I  go  out  a  little  every  day,  &  think  I  shall 
try  to  make  a  beginning  at  work  in  the  office  Monday  or  Tues- 


I     ;1 


«    u 


\T 


u 


S4 


A,V    /i'/-;    WALT   WHITMAN. 


<lay — bcginniiig  by  dogrcos — I  got  a  letter  from  JcfT  yesterday, 
very  good — they  Hcein  to  like  Mr.  it  Mrs.  Hockley's — Jeff  has 
some  extra  work,  making  phins  lor  new  water  works  for  Kansas 
City,  Mo.. — i»  is  all  the  belter — Mother  1  suppose  you  got  the 
letters  1  wrote  Monday  it  Wetlnesday,  tliis  week — 

It  was  dark  and  rainy  lure  yesterday,  but  is  pleasant  to-day— 
I  aiu  going  out  a  little  this  afternoon- — I  send  you  sonic  more 
papers,  to-day — mother  do  you  get  the  papers  I  send.  Already 
you  <an  sec  the  grass  looking  green  here,  on  the  south  side  of 
bnihlings.  iS:  the  willow  trees  arc  budding  out  slightly — Spring 
will  soon  1)0  \ii)on  us — It  is  \w\\  noon,  vS:  1  am  sitting  here  in 
tlte  room — Mrs.  O'Connor  has  come  in,  first  time  in  three  days 
— Mammvilear  I  hope  you  will  have  a  pleasant  Sunday — Love  to 
you  and  (looigie  \-  I, on  vS:  all. 

Mill  ill  29.  Siitni\uty  iifteruoou,  }(  f<>  3. — Dear  mother,  1  have 
come  over  this  afternoon  to  the  oHiec,  iS:  am  now  writing  this 
at  my  liesk.  T  did  not  snrceed  in  working  any — was  not  well 
■enough  the  past  week, — although  I  have  not  gone  behindhand — • 
but  as  I  sit  here  this  afternoon,  it  appears  to  me  I  shall  be  able 
to  make  a  commencement  next  Monday — for,  though  feeble,  I 
feel  just  now  tiiore  like  work  than  any  time  yet — We  have  had 
real  blowy  March  weather  here  to-ilay,  stulden  &  fitful  showers 
&  heavv  <  louds  &  wiml — vv:  now  ii  is  (piite  clear  and  pleas- 
ant— I  cannot  walk  around  yet  but  feel  in  good  spirits — am 
]>leased  to  feel  as  well  as  I  do,  iS:  got  along  as  well  .as  I  do — 
Mother  I  do  tiot  show  any  sickness  in  my  looks,  in  flesh  or  face, 
except  very  little  jierhap.s — 

I  will  finish  to-morrow  or  next  day. 

Sunday  night — 8  o'(-lock — I  still  feel  as  well  as  yesterday,  & 
have  been  out  twice  to-day,  riding  in  the  cars  &  walking  a 
little — I  get  in  the  cars  right  at  my  door,  &  am  brought  back 
there  again — It  h.is  been  a  beautiful  day — I  am  now  sitting  in 
my  room,  by  the  stove,  but  there  is  hardly  need  of  a  fire — Peter 
Doyle  is  here  for  a  couple  of  hours — he  is  reading — the  doctor 
has  been  in  to-day — he  says  I  am  getting  along  very  well — 

Monday  af"ternoon,  1  o'clock — Mother,  I  am  ovr  at  my  desk 


IM 


yesterday, 
— Jofr  has 
or  Kansas 
"I  got  the 

t().(Iay — . 
Miie  more 

Already 
li  side  of 
—Spring 

1 10 re  in 

ec  days 
—  I-ovc  to 


?r,  I  liave 
iting  this 
not  well 
idhaiid — 
I  I)c  able 
feeble,  I 
lave  had 
showers 
Hi   pleas- 
irits — am 
s  I  do— 
I  or  face. 


?rday,  & 
liking  a 
5ht  bark 
tling  in 
'—Peter 
'  doctor 

ny  desk 


LKI'ThUS  IN  SWKNl'JSS:   WASIllSGToy,   1«73. 


«5 


in  the  ofliec  again,  writing  this.  I  liave  re<  'd  yonr  letter  tluit  the 
money  came  safe.  1  have  just  written  a  letter  to  Jeff,  iV  en- 
closed Josephine's  h  yours  in  it — I  am  feeling  on  the  gain,  but 
still  very  slow'y.  I  am  taking  some  me<licine,  to  restore  strength 
— yesterday  was  perhaps  my  best  day — though  I  feel  middling 
to-day— I  have  not  sent  the  (iraphics  containing  my  pieces  as  1 
have  not  had  but  one  copy,  it  sometimes  not  that — I  send 
papers  to-day — Mother  you  write  \w\  wliat  envelopes  you  want 
directed  to  any  of  them,  iV  I  will  send  them — 

It  is  gusty  here  but  (imie  pleasant—-!  am  feeling  (piitc  com- 
fortable, \'  sliall  soon  be  walking  aroimd  I  feel  confident — 

I  want  to  come  on  to  Camden,  but  wish  to  get  a  little  more 
able  to  move  around  first — Love  to  you  &  all,  Mother  dear. 

Af<n7  \,  Tuestfdv  afffrnoon,  2  o'clock. — Dearest  mother,  I  am 
writing  this  over  at  the  office — I  have  made  a  sort  of  commence- 
ment of  my  work  to-day — I  have  rec'd  this  note  (enclosed)  from 
Lillic  Townsend — Mother  I  believe  I  will  write  them  a  few  lines, 
soon — (What  is  Aunt  Sally's  name — is  it  Sarah  Piiitaid) — when 
you  next  write  tell  me — I  am  feeling  quite  well, — (only  easily 
put  out  with  my  head).  I  have  been  in  the  office  nearly  three 
hours  to-day,  &  have  got  along  comfortable — I  can  only  move 
slowly  yet — cannot  walk  any — at  least  any  distance — 

April  2,  Wciincsiiay, — Mother  I  am  over  at  the  office — feel 
rather  slim  to-('ay — but  the  weather  is  so  pleasant,  I  shall  feel 
better  I  think — your  letter  has  just  come,  &  I  am  glad  as  always 
to  hear  from  you  all — you  say  George's  house  is  commenced,  the 
cellar  begun — I  like  to  hear  all  about  its  progress — 

I  see  in  the  papers  this  morning  an  awful  shipwreck  yesterday 
night — seems  to  me  the  worst  ever  happened,  a  first-class,  big 
steamship  from  England,  went  down  almost  instantly,  700  iieople 
lost,  largely  women  and  children,  just  as  they  got  here,  (towards 
Halifax) — what  misery,  to  many  thousand  relatives  and  friends 
— Mother  I  send  you  the  Graphic — the  pictures  are  amusing — (I 
thought  I  would  write  a  line  to  the  Townsends,  mostly  on  Aunt 
Sally's  account,  as  it  may  humour  her) — 


1 

I 


I 


\.^ 


iiulHi.-«-.<^j>mM-tJim 


r  n. 


«6 


/,v  ?n:  n-At.r  w  hum  Ay. 


IM 


\Vr\\  n\otlipr,  t  Ix'liovo  \h-M  u  .'ill  tn-<li)v  I  hnpr  ihi^  will  find 
\i»»  ItM'linfi  Well  iV  i)<  good  licuK,  dourest  luothci  I,i)ve  to 
Hrotlu!>  (uM)igc  vV  Sialcr  Lou — 

Af>n!  \.  Fn/Mv  <iffff~»o<->fi.  IVatrst  niolhor,  t  roiM  your  letter 
to  ilnv,  iinil  I  nlso  vf<M  yonr  Irtioi  of  Tiu'sdnv,  (n"^  I  wrote 
Wt'diirMliu)  I  will  write  a  tew  lines  to  l.illie,  (mostly  for  Aunt 
Sidlv  Me;\o)   - 

1  got  !i  good  letter  iVcMn  Jefl'  yestenlrtv,— i^^o'l'"'''  j<'ff  is  evi- 
dently feeling  <  (nnpom'd  vV  well, — of  <  otnse  he  feels  Matty's 
de;uh  very  senottslv,  1>n1  I  think  he  h,»s  reeoveied  fron\  the 
Rh<>i  k,  iU»d  (Utends  to  his  hnsniess  iis  well  ;is  ever  They  seem  to 
W  well  silttrtted  rtl  the  Ihu  kley's-  -)e(T  writes  quite  rt  gooil  deal 
flhont  \'Mi  he  writes  about  Miit's  death — about  her  wishing  to 
see  us  before  she  died  — 

I   nm  writing   this  seated  at   \w\  desk   '\\\  the  olVtee  -1  (ome 

I'r  to  the  oiri<  e  aboiu  »2  I  do  not  (eel  very  well,  most  of  the 
lime,  but  have  spells  when  I  feel  tuueh  better,  generally  evening 
—1  thit^k  tlie  sun  aflVi  ts  me — 

Mother  we — 1  and  the  liortor — have  talked  nuK  h  of  lh(>  eler- 
trie  battery  treatment — but  as  l(>ng  as  the  head  is  afVeeted,  (the 
brain  \'  nerves^  thev  sav  it  mtist  not  be  ap|>lieil,  for  it  will  do 
n\iMv  \yM\\\  than  good,  might  (>atise  «-onvuIsions — My  doetor,  l>r. 
l>rinkard.  savs  he  will  use  it  as  soon  as  he  (eels  it  will  do  good — ■ 
but  tlu'  time  has  not  eome  vet — 1  believe  1  toUl  you  1  am  taking 
iron,  stryelmia  and  (pnnine  to  give  strength  — 

1  wnMe  to  )efl"  vesterdav — I  send  you  Harper's  Weekly,  to-day, 
MvMlier  it  i''  «)uite  interestiiig — \  still  hold  my  mind  about  getting 
a  house  hen^  tV  sh^/i  cntainh  do  so—\\  jM-esent  mv  great  hojw 
is  to  get  well,  to  get  s(i  1  ran  walk,  vSr  have  s<>me  use  of  my 
bml%s — 1  <\an  write,  preltv  well,  and  my  mind  is  elear.  but  I  ean- 
not  walk  a  block,  ^  have  no  power  to  do  anv  thing,  in  lit\ii\g 
or  moving  am-  thiiig  in  mv  room,  or  at  mv  desk — Siill  I  keep 
good  sjMrits.  Vtier  far  than  I  wonlil  have  supposed  nnself, 
knowing  that  1  shall  get  all  nglit  in  time — I  know  how  mv<h 
w^nv  things  might  K^  in  mv  sitnati<'>n  than  thev  are,  »Sj  feel 
thankful  onovigh  that  they  are  as  well  .as  they  are— Mother  1  was 


glad  to 

Ing  the 

thing  I  ' 

Well 

Sunday 

^   past 

A\»ril, 


I.T'.TTKliS  IN  SICKNKSS:   WASlllNai'ON,   IR7.1. 


«7 


will  fiiul 
I.Dve  to 


|«t1||   lo||(>l- 

I  wrote 
'oi  Aunt 

I  n  is  p\\- 

^i.llly's 
I'loin  llm 
\'  "<>'nn  1(» 
'»'"!  ilr;»l 
KJiinf)  to 

1  •'oino 
■^1  of  (lie 
t'vpMing 

I  lie  elt'r. 
t<'«l,  (the 

I  will  ,|,) 

'ti>t,  !>r. 

>  ROOll   — 

iM  taking 

,  to-(l,iy, 
t  RiMting 
iv(t  lio|)e 

0  of  my 

II  t  ran- 

1  lifbng 
I  I  keep 
myself, 
'('  murh 

h  feol 
'^  1  was 


glad  to  got  yonr  letter  of  Tuesday,  April  i. — I  have  been  rend- 
ing the  wreik  of  the  Athinii,  April  isl, — 1  think  it  the  saddest 
thin^  I  ever  read 

Will  tnaina  dear,  1  will  (lose  —  I  hope  yon  will  have  a  pleasant 
Snnday — I.ove  to  yon  dear  inotlier,  tt  to  all— it  is  now  about 
Yi  past  I  I'Viday  afterin)on  I  wrote  to  yon  Wednesday  ad 
April,  whi(  h  I  suppose  you  got. 

April  (),  SufhiiiY  n'rninir.  —  I)earest  niother,  I  will  ((unniein  e 
a  letter  to  yon,  though  there  is  nothing  jiartic  ular  to  write  about 
— but  it  is  a  pleasure  evei»  to  write — as  1  am  alone  a  great  deal  yet 
in  my  rooni.  It  is  aboiU  ><i  past  H,  ami  I  am  Kitting  here  alone 
—  I  have  been  out  to-day  twite,  riding  in  the  rars— it  is  a  change 
— the  weather  here  is  very  i)leasanl  indeed — if  1  rould  only  get 
aiound  i  shonhl  be  satisfied — 

1  ex;t('(  t  IVicr  Doyh-  in  yet  this  evening,  to  stay  an  lunir  or 
two — he  works  every  night  exrepl  Snnday  night — 

ApttV  7,  ,]fr»,fitv  ft(>o». — Well  mother  dear  I  am  now  fndshing 
my  letter  over  at  (lie  offiee  seated  at  my  desk — I  do  not  feel 
very  well,  my  head  is  still  so  feeble  -  I  suppose  I  ought  to  be 
satisfied  that  I  tlo  not  go  behimlhand  -  I  send  you  cpiite  a  bundle 
ol  papers  to-day  -One  of  the  (Jrapliies  with  one  of  my  pieees  in 
— the  spring  seems  to  be  opening  here,  the  grass  is  (jnite  green, 
«\'  the  trees  are  beginning  to  bud  out — it  looks  very  pleasant — 

lA»ve  to  you  mama  dear  &  all. 

Af>fi/  t6,  If^etfftrstfdv  n<>oH. — Dearest  mother,  I  have  had  one 
or  two  (piite  good  spells — but  am  not  feeling  well  just  now — 
have  got  over  to  the  offiee,  &  am  now  sitting  at  my  <lesk — it  is  a 
rainv  ilay  here,  not  very  cool  — 

Mother  1  have  nothing  partiiular  to  write  to-dav  either — but 
liiought  I  would  send  just  a  few  lines,  as  you  might  like  to  get 
something — The  season  is  ipiiie  advaneed  here — pleasant  the 
past  few  tiays,  I  have  been  out  in  the  cars  every  day.  I  have 
not  written  very  lately  either  to  JeflT  or  Hannah  —  Well  Mammy 
dear,  how  arc  you  getting  along  at  Camden — &  how  are  Lou  and 


88 


IN  RK   WAI.T  WllintAN, 


George — I  often  wish  you  were  here,  mother  dear,  as  it  would  he 
Burh  a  relief  to  me  to  have  you  where  I  eouhl  sec  you,  >  'alk 
a  while  - 

1  think  tlicrc  is  no  doubt  that,  take  tlic  lime  right  through, 
I  gain  steadily,  though  very  slowly  indeed — but  I  get  many 
tedious  spells,  both  of  head  vS:  )in»bs — there  secniti  to  be  great 
deal  of  pandysis — I  hear,  or  read  of  lases,  every  day.  One  man 
here  to  day  told  me  of  his  father,  who  had  a  very  bad  stroke  at 
70  years  of  age,  but  got  over  it  after  all,  and  lived  17  or  18 
years  iifter,  by  great  care — So  I  hear  of  many  cases,  some  good, 
sonie  uidavorable.  As  to  myself,  I  do  not  lose  faith  for  a  mo- 
nu-nl,  in  my  ultimate  recoverv, — though,  as  I  said,  I  have  some 
bad  houis, — sometimes  very  bad.  Well  mam  i  dear  I  have 
scribbled  out  this  sheet  nearly,  such  as  it  is — I  sent  you  a  letter 
last  Monday — I  have  changed  the  address  on  the  envelopes  to 
you,  mother,  as  you  see — is  it  right  ? 

I  am  feeling  better — my  hcatl  is  some  easier — Love  to  you 
dear  mama,  &  all. 

Af>ril  19,  Sdfutuittv. — It  is  now  about  noon,  &  I  have  just 
come  over  to  the  olVu  e,  and  have  put  up  the  wiiulow  for  a  few 
moments,  to  stand  tS:  get  the  fresh  air,  &  then  jnit  it  down 
again.  Right  opposite  the  window — in  the  President's  grounds 
a  man  in  his  shirt-sleeves  is  raking  up  the  grass  that  has  been  al- 
ready cut  on  a  ^  acre  patch — so  you  can  see  spring  has  advanced 
here — the  trees  are  quite  green — 

Mother,  I  have  had  the  second  application  of  electricity  to-day, 
quite  a  good  application  by  Dr.  Drinkard — he  rubs  the  handles 
over  my  leg  iSr  thigh,  for  perhaps  twenty  minutes — the  shock  is 
very  perceptible — it  is  not  jxiinful  at  all,  feels  something  like 
pressing  a  sore — I  feel  as  I  said  before,  that  it  will  be  beneficial 
to  me,  (^though  there  are  difterent  opinions  about  it) — I  feel  bet- 
ter to-day  than  yesterday — I  think,  mother  dear,  there  is  no 
doubt  at  all  that  I  progress  surely  though  very  slowly,  (&  with 
an  occasional  bad  spell) — 

Did  you  read  in  the  morning  papers  to-day  about  the  fight 
with   the  Modocs  out  in  Californi.i — &  Col.  Mason — I  think 


(but  am  1 
going  to 
books— ^1 


April  2 

improviuj 

clumsdy 

am  stroni 

The  doc 

appHcati 

1  have 

you,  say J 

speaks  1) 

nothing 
I  am  V 
cloudy  i< 
day  last 
me  abou 
lieve  it  i 
active- 
letter— ' 
write  wl 
good  ac^ 

April 

got  the 

over  to 

Mother 

next — y 

get  this 

better  1 

advanc 

cold  'w 

day  is 

Lov 

Ma 


LKTTI'.ns  IN  SICKNi'JiS:   WASHINGTON,  1H73. 


87 


oiild  l)e 
'alk 

roiigli, 
in.iiiy 
L'  great 
11"  man 
t'ke  at 
"t    18 

a  iiio- 

soine 

liave 

letter 

pes  to 


(hut  am  not  sure)  it  is  Jule  Mason — it  is  quite  interesting — I  am 
going  to  worit  for  a  couple  of  lioiirs  now  at  my  work  in  the  office 
books — I  am  feeling  (jiiite  conifortable  this  afternoon. 

Af>nl list,  Afonday,  i  o\lock  iiften,jon, — Mother,  I  am  decidedly 
improving — feel  more  like  myself  the  last  three  days — I  walk  very 
clumsily  yet,  &  do  not  try  '  >  get  around  by  walking — but  I  think  I 
am  stronger  now,  iS;  my  prospects  arc  better  than  any  lime  yci. 
'Pile  (locloi  has  applied  elci  Iricity  again  to-day,  making  the  lliird 
application — So  uptMi  the  whole  I  think  I  am  doing  real  wdl-- 

l  have  rec'd  a  leile-  from  I'riscilla  'I'ownsend — She  speaks  of 
you,  says  that  Aunt  Sally,  always  wants  to  hear  from  yon — Slie 
speaks  of  Sarah  Avery's  calling  there,  &  of  Ms.  'I'ripp,  &  all  — 
nothing  very  new — 

I  am  writing  this  over  at  the  office — It  is  pleasant  here,  but 
cloudy  &  coolish — Mother  I  suppose  you  got  my  letter  Satur- 
day last — How  is  Sister  Lou  getting  along — when  yon  write  tell 
me  about  her — Oeorge  I  suppose  is  full  of  business— Well  I  be- 
lieve it  is  better  for  a  man  tc  have  plenty  to  ilo,  if  he  is  well  & 
active — Well  mamma  dear  I  have  written  you  quite  r  rambling 
letter — Tell  nie  when  you  want  envelopes  &  I  will  send  them — 
write  whenever  you  can — I  think  I  shall  be  able  to  soon  give  a 
good  account  of  my  improvement. 

April  yi.  Wdinfsday  afternoon. — Mother  dear  I  suppose  you 
got  the  letter  Tuesday — I  am  about  the  same — I  have  not  gone 
over  to  the  office  to-day,  &  am  writing  this  in  my  room — 
Mother  I  send  you  %\<^  in  this — will  scml  the  other  5  in  my 
next — Write  and  send  me  word,  soon  as  convenient,  after  yon 
get  tbis — I  have  not  been  feeling  so  well  this  forenoon,  but  feel 
better  now — As  I  said  before  I  have  up;  and  downs — but  steadily 
advance,  quite  certain,  though  very  slowly — I  seem  to  have  a  bad 
cold  in  my  head — I  am  going  to  try  to  go  out  in  the  oar,  as  the 
day  is  so  pleasant  and  bright. 

Love  to  you  &  all,  mother  dear. 

May  T.  Wednesday  noon. — Dearest  mother,  I  have  just  rec'd 


ir 


i 


90 


IN  UK   WALT   WHITMAN. 


I 


yoiir  short  letter  of  yesterday — Mother  I  feel  so  bad,  you  are  not 
well,  1  don't  know  what  to  do — Will  not  rest,  and  some  food 
that  suits,  be  good  remedies? — An  old  person  wants  the  most 
favorable  conditions,  to  get  over  any  tiling.  Mother,  I  will  come 
on  about  the  ist  of  next  month — I  am  getting  along  favorably, 
they  all  say,  but  hn.ve  frequent  distress  in  my  head,  &  my  leg 
is  clumsy  as  ever — I  am  writing  this  in  the  office  at  my  desk — I 
send  some  papers  to-day — nothing  particular  in  them — but  I 
tiiink  the  English  paper,  the  Sunderland  Times,  good  reading — 
Mother  write,  if  perfectly  convenient,  either  Friday  or  Saturday, 
as  I  am  anxious  about  you — 

Good  bye  dearesi  mother,  &  keep  up  a  good  heart. 


I  am 
yesterda 
—feel  b 
a  visit  tl 
time,  & 
shall  be 

As 

you  con 

grass 

one  go( 

Mot 


5 

It  I 


May  II,  Sunday  forenoon. — Dearest  mother,  Well  mother  dear, 
I  am  certainly  getting  well  again — I  have  maile  a  great  improve- 
ment the  last  three  days,  &  my  head  feels  clear  and  good 
nearly  all  the  time — &  that,  the  doctor  says,  will  bring  my  log 
all  right  in  a  little  while — 

Yesterday  was  a  beautiful  day,  &  I  was  out  a  good  deal — 
walked  some,  a  couple  of  blocks,  for  the  first  time — Peter  Doyle 
convoyed  me — This  morning  I  have  had  my  breakfast,  &  have 
been  sitting  by  my  open  window  looking  out — it  is  very  pleasant 
and  warm,  but  cloudy — we  have  heavy  showers  here  nights 
— too  much  rain  indeed — still  spring  is  very  fine  here,  &  it 
looks  beautiful  from  my  windows — I  am  writing  this  in  my  room 
— I  am  feeling  just  now  well  as  usual  in  my  general  health — part 
of  the  time  just  as  well  as  ever — but  of  course  I  expect  a  few  set- 
backs before  I  get  well  entirely,  &  supple  in  my  limbs — It  is 
remarkable  how  much  paralysis  there  is — cases  occur  here,  every 
few  days — &  in  other  cities — There  is  quite  a  time  here  about 
the  burial  of  Mr.  Chase,  his  body  is  at  the  Capitol  to-day,  & 
he  is  buried  to-morrow — Mother  the  paper  I  send  you  has  a  pic- 
ture of  a  railroad  depot  they  are  building  here — it  is  for  the 
road  Peter  Doyle  works  on — you  will  see  a  piec  in  that  paper 
about  the  Beecher  and  Tilton  scandal — it  is  very  coarse — I  think 
Beecher  a  great  humbug,  but  I  don't  believe  there  is  any  truth  in 
that  piece — (but  of  course  don't  know) — 


LKTTKliS  IN  SICKNESS:   WASIIINQTOS,   1873. 


9» 


M  are  not 
Ime  food 
I  lit*  most 
[ill  come 
[vorably, 
my  leg 
I  desk— I 
[—but  I 
'ading — 
Uurday, 


I  am  still  having  electricity  applied — the  doctor  applied  it 
yesterday — I  am  certainly  getting  -'ong  better  the  last  few  days 
— feel  better — feel  more  like  myselt — I  shall  come  &  pay  you 
a  visit  the  first  part  of  next  month — shall  write  before  I  come,  the 
time,  &c. — Mother  I  hope  tiiis  will  find  you  feeling  better — I 
shall  be  anxious  to  hear — write  a  line  or  two,  Tuesday — 

As  I  sit  by  the  window  this  forenoon  looking  out,  I  wish 
you  could  take  a  look  at  the  prospect,  it  is  so  fine,  the  trees  & 
grass  so  green,  and  tlie  river  &  hills  in  the  distance — it  does 
one  good  to  look  at  it — 

Mother  I  shall  feel  anxious  until  I  hear  from  you— 

May  13,  Tuesday  aflernoon. — Dearest  mother,  I  suppose  you 
got  my  letter  Monday  12th  (written  Simday,) — I  am  still  improv- 
ing— (I  don't  feel  quite  as  well  to-day  as  for  some  days  past — but 
it  is  a  great  advance  on  what  I  have  been) — &  am  in  good 
spirits — 

Dear  mother,  I  feel  very  anxious  about  you — it  is  very  dis- 
tressing to  have  the  nervous  system  afiected,  it  always  makes  one 
feel  so  discouraged,  that  is  the  worst  of  it — Mother  I  am  afraid 
you  are  more  unwell  than  you  say — I  think  about  it  night  & 
day — the  enclosed  letter  came  to  me  yesterday  -Jeff  sent  it  to 
me,  by  mistake  (may-be  one  for  me  has  gone  to  you) — I  got 
anotlier  letter  from  Jeff  to-day — all  are  well — Jeff  too  is  anxious 
about  you — Mother  try  to  write  a  line  soon  after  yon  get  this — 
I  am  writing  this  in  the  office — Mother  I  shall  come  on. 


\ 


i\ 


May  16,  Friday  forenoon. — Dearest  mother,  I  am  sitting  i'l 
my  room  waiting  for  the  doctor — Mother  you  are  in  my  min'l 
most  of  the  time — I  do  hope  as  I  write  this  you  are  feeling  better 
dear  mother  do  not  get  discouraged — there  is  so  much  in  keeping 
good  heart,  (if  one  only  can) — I  think  that  is  what  has  kept  me 
up,  &  is  bringing  me  through — I  think  I  am  still  on  the  gain, 
though  it  is  very  slow — my  breakfast  is  brought  up  yet,  has  been 
this  morning — I  don't  go  out  till  about  noon — then  I  hitch  over 
to  the  office,  &  stay  there  for  a  couple  of  hours — then  I  hitch 
out  &  get  in  the  cars  &  take  quite  a  long   ride,   (sometimes 


i 


-ifiina» 


.1 
•I 


•• 


/.V    A' a;    wait   M7///»M.V. 


It 


ill|||n^  prcllv  liv(l\,  iiH  llir  Inti  k  is  |»ihI  IhH  I  tloii'i  inintl  it 
iniirli)  I  (liin'i  I'lU  nny  tlnimi,  milv  u  liKhl  Imuli,  us  I  Hixl  it  Ik 
nun  l\  bctln  l«ti  ino  —I  ifrlniiilv  ilnn't  ^rt  iMliimlliaml  uny,  tlmt's 
picllv  I  l(;M.  (V  I  «  mint  oil  liitir  In  iiijiiii^  iiii' nil  li^lll  tlir  oiilv 
lliiiiH  I  lliiiik  111  now  IS  son,  iIimi  iimilu'i,  \  iiltniil  vmi  nclliii^ 
woll  >\\h\  Mwwfi  us  iisiiiil  I  ^ol  ynr  Irllci  vrstrninv  ('riiiiiH- 
tlnv)  I  siipptw  ynii  Kill  iniiif  vchIchIiiv-  I  n«miI  lliillicii  liile 
"  Cmplii.  "  \  oil.'  lo  Il;ii)  itUo — (llio  nrtnicns  tin*  IiihI  one  I  soiit 
tt»  voti  I. 

It  is  Hiiinnl.ii  liow  null  li  nfiviiin  (liscaM'  tluTC  is  mul  many 
rases  ot  iMialyni!*  »V  itpopU'xy  I  ilunk  llu-ic  is  sinnrlliiiiK  in  the 
nil,  for  It  your  |Mst--laHt  siinimn  cspofiiilly  I'oiliinatoly,  it 
RCrins  as  it'  must  |u'ii|ilo  ^ol  ovri  il 

I'lulav  allcmoon  \  o'llork.  — I  am  ovci  al  ilicolliii'  llavo 
llo\  i\  It'ttrr  iVoin  Sislri  I  ,on  wiiltcn  'riinrsdav  momiiin,  wliii  h 
given  u\c  nwni  rv\\v\,  as  it  savs  tlial  Sniuiav  «as  vmii  woisl  day, 
\-  llial  vmi  liavo  ^ol  nliot  now  iKai,  «loar  niotlur.  I  liopc 
yiMi  art"  slill  grtlin^j  lu'tlci  von  must  liv  to  led  jiooil  roiiia^i- — • 
1  sliall  I  omo  on  soon,  piolnMv  .il'ont  llic  is|  ol  Jniir  1  liave 

got  u  letter  tiom  John  Ihnroiighs  this  morning  he  »V  wilo 
ntv  hoth  a  lillh'  liomosii  k  lor  Wasliinglon  thov  had  got  a  nire 
homo  lioro  hill  hois  goin^  to  soil  it  -\-  soltlo  up  ihnr  he 
docs  JHlior  ihoro—  hilt  ho  was  doing  woll  ononf»h  hoio,  \*  was 
very  oomloiiahlc.  My  hortd  lioiihh>s  mo  to-dav.  hnl  I  am  over 
liiMo  al  mv  desk,  rtt  oflioe-  Molhor  it'  mnvoniont  wrilo  mo  a  line 
Sunday,  so  I  will  get  il  Mimdav. 

1  oil  wiitos  a  voiv  ^oo\\,  fooling  letter,  ahout  you — Wrts  very 
unhappy  Sunday. 


Illllll  ll 

IkI    ll    JM 
lll.ll's 

'  iMtly 

I  llJh^ 

liili-N. 

.1    lillC 
I  -iciit 

ni.iny 

m  (lie 

V.    if 


WALr  will  IMAN  AND  IMS  l<l;CLNT  CKITICS. 


Hf  yi^ny  luNNoudHS. 


SiioKil.v  iiftor  VVIiitinim's  tli-alh  n  friend  of  the  poet  nrranKod 
will)  one  nf  tlr<  prcxs  r  ll|l|l^l^  Iiiimmiis  Io  moiiiI  liiin  nil  tlic  iirws- 
jiniKT  lint K'-H  (  Amoriciiii )  ol  the  pod's  life  nml  wnrks  wliit  li  liis 
4l('.illi  ( iillcti  luitli.      Id  a  sIkmI  (iiiic  iipwaiils  ol  a  (liotisiitiil  <  lip- 
piii^H  lltiwod  ill  iipoit  liiii),  when  ho  ^rcw  alaiinod  aiwl  <  ricd  Htop, 
slop  I     i'lic  srissors  said   llicy  « oiild  (Msily  have  fiiriiiNluMi  a  few 
Inindrcd  more.      Mu«  h  of  tliis  matter  I  have  had  the  niriosity  to 
look  over.     Of  (oiiise  the  Inilk  of  it  is  of  little  value  or  interest, 
beiii^  of  the  nsnal  hasty,  momentary  newspaper  « liara<  lor.    Some 
of  it  is  simply  slanderotis  and  ahiisivc.     The  irreverent  ctiarse- 
monthed  ribaldry  of  it  eomes  from  the  south  ;ind  west  ;   the  tool 
polished  venom  and  insult  from  the  east.      Hearty  ^ood  will  and 
approiiation  <  omes  in  plenty  from  all   parts  of  the  (ouiitry,  no- 
tably HO  from  New  Knuland.      More  nlTiv  tion  and  appreciation  is 
nhown  for  the  man  liian  for  the  book  ;  he  is  easier  understood, 
tlionnh  the  book  is  a  remarkable  analogue  of  (he  man.      ihit  the 
ptiems  have  an  m>»e  and  a  streiiuoiisness  that  (he  man  did  net  show. 
In  his  tiaily  life  and  habit  Whitman  wis  at  ease  in  /ion.     Then 
we  are  all  better  judges  of  men  than  we  are  of  books,  and  strange 
to  say,  the  more  a  book  is  like  the  live  man  the  less  able  we  nre 
to  judge  it.     We  are  bowildered  when  we  fiiul  (he  natural  where 
we  expet  tod  the  artilicial. 

The  droll  American  limiior  occasionally  crops  out  in  these 
clippings.  One  writer  says  Whitman  was  too  well  up  in  physi- 
ology for  the  popular  taste.  Another  says  "  he  cast  his  eye  in 
every  direction  and  (jnoted  everything  he  saw  above  par."  The 
New  York  HcraU  had  said,  "he  stru<k  his  lyre  with  his  fist  at 

(9J) 


\i 


ll ' 


m 


i^  tX   RK   WALT   M7//7tf.l,V. 

times,  instead  olliis  finger  tips."  A  western  editor  hastened  to 
srtv  tl^at  wns  the  best  way  to  strike  n  liar. 

or  renl  insight  into  our  poet's  inellunis  jtnil  aims,  tu  altiMnpt  at 
Insiglil,  these  rlippiii^s  show  a  painlnl  huk.  Now  awA  then  i\ 
tnan  seems  to  grappU*  witli  hin»  lot  a  moment  as  il  determineil  to 
petu'trate  him,  luit  lie  is  apt  to  iii,ivkiy  sliile  olT  into  some  ii»eai> 
generahty. 

'I'lie  aveiage  tiewspaper  eilitor  and  liook  notieer  of  this  eountry 
{s  nolle  too  -^ntv  oi  himsell  when  lie  h,\s  onlv  a  third  or  lonrth  rate 
work  to  vieal  with.  Tlunk  then  wlial  a  list  he  will  make  ot  it 
when  suddenly  railed  npvm  to  pass  jmlgnient  \ipon  a  great  prim- 
itive poem,  as  I'honMU  eallevl  "  Leaves  ol  tJrass."  Think  too 
what  atmos\>heiv  of  nrlcome  ami  pieparation  there  is  likely  to 
W  for  sueh  a  work  in  a  gix'at,  ernde,  sprawling,  niannnon  wor- 
shipping, pohlu  al  iv>hhing.  newspaper-beridilen  eoiiixry  like 
ours ! — A  work  that  i\iakes  no  aeciMint  at  all  of  our  sehool-lKM)k 
culture,  our  brie-a-hrae  art,  and  our  soeial  refinei'.entsaitd  distinc- 
tions, and  that  must  be  jndped  as  we  judg''  real  things,  real  men 
auvl  woi\uM\.  real  seenes  anil  processes  of  nature,  -a  kind  of 
judgment  wliit  h  we  are  totallv  unprepainl  for  in  literature, 

Kven  \V,\h  Whitnian  the  man  was  not  always  appreciated. 
One  of  the  noblest,  most  impu^ssive.  most  benignant,  most  lov- 
able f^gntvs  ever  seen  in  this  eonntrv,  perhaps  altogether  the 
most  so,  and  yet  a  Piuladelphia  editor  only  saw  in  him  a 
rather  vulg,4r  old  man  nvssing  tl^e  ^'amden  ferry.  If  the  avemge 
eilitorial  es-e  sees  only  this  in  the  man.  what  will  it  see  in  the 
\H>ok  ? 

^^^w  and  then  in  these  clippings  one  falls  upon  a  stn^k  of 
unmistakable  venom  and  hatix^l,  as  in  the  it'view  in  the  A'^tttttin 
and  the  editorial  con>ments  in  the  fn<iff^n^fni  and  the  TSmrs. 
One  had  reason  to  ex|>eit  Wtter  things  of  the  7)W.»-,  around 
which  the  luster  of  givat  names  and  high  service  still  lingers  ;  but 
the  other  two  iournals  have  alw.ivs  Iven  the  avowttl  enemies  of 
Whitman,  and  his  death  gave  the  opportunity  for  the  final  and. 
cri"»wning  insult.  "  .\  man,"  says  our  poet,  "  is  a  summons  auvl 
ch.allenge,"  ftnd  the  challenge  is  quickly  taken  up  by  all  who 
|5eel  .\ggrie\"€ii  by  his  manliness.     A  gt^at  many  readers  seiMu  to 


::-T(?S'^f^{^v^^Ti^^ 


llU'li    I 


o 


J'lnpt  at 

[llu-ii   i\ 

|lU'l|  to 

rlu'a|> 

!>'iii(iy 
|lli  lale 
o(  it 
priin- 

l^    1(H) 

n-ly  ti> 

<  wor- 

like 

lH)ok 

I    of 


WALT   WllirMAN  AND   Hl&  RFA'KNT  VIHTICS. 


95 


•liivo  been  nggrievcil  by  Wliilmnn's  ngffrcssive  ()iit-s|tokon  manli- 
lU'SH,  and  tlicy  luivc  it-tortctl  upon  him  in  ways  nnil  in  a  spirit 
proper  lo  tlicin.  The  rank  indiviihinl  (lavnr  of  his  poems — their 
n/ /frs((>  ([waWi'wH — fairly  throw  tiie  dileltanle  into  tonvidsioiis< 
Men  who  arc  (oo  liune  and  too  sironjf  for  their  a^e  (generally 
excite  nuich  more  liostility  than  tiiose  who  are  inadecpiale,  or 
who  Mie  simply  onl  of  joint  with  it.  We  disregard  Ih-'  small  man, 
we  langh  nt  the  crank ;  hut  the  giant  who  goes  his  ow  vay,  regard- 
less of  the  lookers-on,  we  are  apt  to  follow  with  envy  and  hatred. 

In  politi(H,  in  religion,  in  literatme,  the  exieplionally  bold 
nnd  strong  <  haracter,  accompanied  as  it  usually  is  with  ex(  cplion- 
nlly  strong  laults,  always  puts  our  sense  of  manliness  to  the  test. 
The  death  of  Wall  Whitman  has  tested  the  manliness  of  our 
literary  circles,  and  onr  power  to  deal  with  original  first-class 
work,  as  they  have  not  before  been  tested  in  this  generation 

It  is  easy  to  see  that  the  general  current  of  these  <  lippings  has 
been  a  good  deal  influem  ed  by  the  high  opinion  held  of  Whit- 
man in  Kngland  and  on  the  Continent.  This  opinion  always 
seems  to  have  one  of  three  elTecfs  upon  the  Anu'rir.m  reviewer: 
if  he  is  favorably  inclined  toward  the  jioet  it  strengthens  and 
confirms  his  goiul  opinion  ;  if  not,  it  dazes  and  bewiklers  him,  or 
else  irritates  and  embitters  him.  It  has  had  this  last  effect  upon 
the  writers  in  the  Niifioti  and  the  Ittihfendeni.  Th.it  'I'ennyson 
and  Rossetti  and  Freiligralh  and  many  others  should  .see  in 
Whitman  a  great  man  and  poet  fairly  makes  pie  of  many  well- 
settled  editorial  opinions.  Some  of  them  seem  to  question 
themselves  whether  or  not  after  all  Tolstoi  may  not  be  a 
novelist?  Ibsen  a  dramatist?  and  the  author  of  the  "Leaves" 
a  poet  ? 

Whitman's  breadth,  his  absolute  independence,  his  unshaken 
determination  to  go  his  own  way  in  the  world,  is,  if  it  must  be 
confessed,  more  English  than  American.  It  is  also  pretty  certain 
that  the  strong  tmdisguised  man-flavor  of  his  work,  the  throb  and 
presstire  in  it  of  those  things  which  make  for  the  virility  and  per- 
petuity of  the  race,  are  more  keenly  relished  in  Britain  than  in 
America,  bo  thoroughly  are  v*  yet  under  the  spell  of  the  refined, 
and  the  conventional. 


i 


% 


gd  IX  UK  WAIT  wnir^rAX. 

I'Im-  Hiin'sh  press  Ims  first  find  l.tsi  \\;\i\  its  spltpfitl  flings  al 
WInnn.m,  one  of  the  lalost  M  least,  Hint  ot  I'IumhIoio  Watla 
(wliocver  he  be)  in  the  Afhffitrum  betiiiving  an  iiggiessive  speci- 
men of  the  tlirty  ihiek-witted  roekncy  l)l;ukgni\nl.  A  ctif  is 
ni'vei  more  A  enr  tlum  wlien  he  lifls  up  his  log  over  the  r.ireass 
of  !\  (le;t<l  lion  ;  and  ilid  roekney  «riti«ism  ever  appear  n\ore 
•  iniisli  an«l  rontemptihle  than  when  in  tlie  person  of  this  man 
Watts  it  made  haste  to  defame  and  dishonor  the  memi)ry  of  our 
poet  ? 

Hnt,  on  the  whole,  the  noliees  of  Whitman  hy  the  Ihitish  jour* 
nals  show  a  nmch  higher  ratige  of  insight  and  apprei  iation  than 
onr  own.  Msperially  di«l  all  llie  otgans  of  the  great  hody  of  the 
working  pe«^ple.  and  of  vonng  I'lngland,  speak  brave  atul  stinmlat- 
ing  wohls  on  the  oeeasivM\  of  the  poet's  death.  I  ipiote  tins  pas- 
sage fnnn  ".Seed-time:  "  "One  wants  li>  say  of  Whitman  that 
nature  seiMned  personified  and  made  al)sohjlely  friendly  to  nian 
in  hi\n.  There  is  a  blending  of  rude  fore  e  and  icnderncBs  here. 
riie  innnetise  vitality  of  nature  eonibines  with  a  eerlain  mild  and 
preeiouB  lujmaimess  that  is  singtilarly  rare  and  efiTeclive.*' 

One  of  the  Ohirago  dailies  had  a  svinposinm  \ipon  Whitman, 
in  whieh  tw  ive  persons  look  part, — thr?e  |ioets,  (woi  lergyinen, 
four  editors,  atid  tlm^e  prose  writers.  The  poets  were  against 
him  by  .1  tw^o-lhinls  majority,  as  is  usually  the  ease.  When  a  first- 
ratepoel  like  Tonnvson  isfvnhim  alesser  poet  will  be  »nildly  against 
him,  while  a  poetling  will  be  furiously  against  him.  There  is  no 
stitkler  lor  the  ;„;es  and  preeedents  like  the  amateru'.  Our  rary 
fiUd  n)riirking  singer,  Jatnes  Whitromb  Riley,  has  wrestlecl  with 
him.  bnt  with  very  poor  results  he  says.  Mauriec  Thompson 
sees  nothing  in  hiu\  whatever.  The  tnan  whom  Kmerson, 
Thoreau,  Tennysor,,  K<»skin,  Carlylo.  Symon«ls,  Freiligrath  did 
see  something  in,  the  ("rawAntlsvdle  singer  fin»ls  vpiitc  barrei\  of 
all  valuable  poetie  (pialities.  W'hitman  says  there  is  no  "object 
so  soft  but  it  M,akes  a  h(d^  for  the  wheel'd  uitiversc  "  (I  suspect 
here  is  the  origin  of  Or.  Holmes'  famous  "  hub"\  atul  who  knows 
but  Caawfordsville  n»ay  yet  be  the  hub  of  our  poetic  cycle? 

Mr,  Mc(i»>vern  rc|>eats  what  he  said  of  Whitman  in  his 
*' Golden   Legacy,"   namely,  that    "Leaves  of  Grass"  is  the 


WAt.r  WItlTMAN  Afft)  tltS  HKCENT  CRtTWff. 


97 


% 


*'  lioarse  song  of  a  man — not  tlie  animal  man,  male  and  female, 
bill  the  clmnirler  man,  of  whom  woman  in  tier  heart  is  iiroiul — • 
the  linn  anti-feminine,  grosR,  living,  ecstatic."  A  central  shot, 
Mr.  McCtovern.  Joseph  Cook  apprehends  that  the  so-called  in« 
decencies  (clergymen  almost  always  fix  their  eyes  upon  these 
passages)  will  drag  the  book  down  to  oblivion  :  twelve  lines  drag 
down  and  swamp  over  twelve  thousand  !  Hut  the  man  in  the 
Chicago  symposinm  who  saw  deepest  and  truest  into  the  subject 
was  "  Uncle  Remus,"  great  hearted  Joel  Chandler  Harris.  Men 
of  broad  and  dee[»  sympathies  invariably  have  the  pass-word  to 
Whitman.  What  some  of  us  only  arrive  at  after  years  of  study 
"  Uiu  le  Remus  "  reaches  quickly  and  easily.  "  In  order  to  ap- 
preciate Whitman's  poetry  and  his  purpose,"  he  says,  "  it  is 
necessary  to  possess  the  intuition  that  enables  the  mind  to  grasp 
in  instant  and  express  admiration  the  vast  group  of  facts  that 
make  man — that  make  Iil)crty — that  make  America.  There  is  no 
poetry  in  the  details;  It  is  all  in  the  broad,  sweeping,  compre- 
hensive assimilation  of  the  mighty  forces  behind  them — the  in- 
evitable, unaccountable,  irresistible  forward  movement  of  man 
in  the  making  of  this  republic." 

And  again:  " 'ri\osc  who  approach  Walt  Whitman's  poetry 
from  the  literary  side  are  sure  to  be  disappointed.  Whatever 
else  it  is  it  is  not  literary.  Its  art  is  its  own,  and  the  melody  of 
it  must  be  sought  in  other  suggestions  than  those  of  meter  .  .  . 
Those  who  are  merely  literary  will  find  little  substance  in  the 
great  drama  of  Democracy,  which  is  outlined  by  Walt  Whitman 
in  his  writings.— it  is  no  distinction  to  call  them  poems.  But 
those  who  know  nature  at  first  hand — who  know  man — who  see 
ill  this  Republic  something  more  than  a  political  government — 
will  find  therein  the  thrill  and  glow  of  poetry  and  the  essence  of 
melody.  Not  the  poetry  that  culture  statuls  in  expectation  of, 
nor  the  melody  that  capers  in  verse  and  meter,  Init  those  rarer 
intimations  and  suggestions  that  are  born  in  primeval  solitudes 
or  come  whirling  from  the  vast  funnel  of  the  storm."  How  ad- 
mirable I  how  true  I  No  man  has  ever  spoken  more  to  the  point 
upon  Walt  Whitman. 

A  remark  of  the  Boston  Globe  is  in  a  similar  vein :  "  If  there 


J 


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II 


i<  n\\\  r^i  rlli-niT  in  hin  wiitln^  li  |q  n  lUnht  i  rui  rllrino  lltnn  lit 

ili^i'q  \»t\(  iltMrlop  |U'<  n«M  itlrH  HHi(  >ii\  r  iHllll'sllrtI  (r<t(|ll.      Till'* 

,  n<u<|>l!iinl    i-i  w   WW    ^v\\v\t\\   i\\\v.       \\\r  iiiliiq   do  nm  m-r*  lIliH 

j  tllix    in   i|rlil<ihMr    m\\   \\\\v\\\\\S\\t\\   oil   llir   \s\\v\'a   |1i1U      lluit   III- 

I  dors  «ot   Him  'M   (Ini-.h.  \\\\\    >iii'v  li>  ''(;ni     iiii>   (o  uidIj  out  i< 

<l<rn\r,  l>ul  li^  w.iltr  ii|(  till'  wiinil.      "  I  Hlii'i|\  no  'x\\\'t  liiirim."    \\v 

Winn.  "  Imi  nho\«ti  \\\v\\\  In  i-Mli;in'«(li'nn  I.IUq  nr"»li  i\nil  nioilrin  I  on 

Uin\i»IU  "   "I'ln-litltoiinr  In  noiniiil:  Irrninil  Mini  nnlr:nnn|  \M 

\\\\\  i<  in  no."      '\'\\v  one  Wodl  lir  l<ii'|>n  lirl'oir  |i|n\  in  niium'nllVl**' 

UrM.     A  Will  Hnown  linmiiiil  »oninonrr  lolil  inr  \\\\\\  NMiiiimni'n 

jMMMnn  niinn\l;ni  il  !iiin.  :nnl  net  l\ln\  io  vvoiK.  In  :\  \\\\  iln-  liiptilv 

wionjiln  nonnn  liltr  tlio'^r  ol    lVini\noi\  iliil  no(.       Ilirnr  IjWI  IcH 

«o^hin^  I'm  him  lo  ilo 

Vhr  r\\\W',\\  opinioi^  ol  iMiil nl(lnM;\  npon  on»  ptirl.  tin  nlnnvn 

\\\   \\\r<iv   •li|^|^in^«^.   in   nn<<ril    jtinl    Ol    linlr   o)    no    Viilnr.  mivr    In 

two  innnniii'*  A  \\\\\v\  in  ilir  ,\',<>H  .■fwr'/..?^  |tiiii  lU'HiuiH-t 
nnn'Urlv  npon  onf  of  \\  liiim;nrn  nii'iiin  \\\v\  ^»oinlin^  onl 
\vluiri»\  l\r  \V:K  In  KiiU>,  \\\v  \\y\\v\  mu-^  •  "Mm  llnu  lir  lirtil 
powrl  tM  nonn-  )<inil  iln-  i  onno\  .-vnlon  wliii  h  |)ln  wHlinun  liior 

^^V^^\olt^l^  iWv  nnlVn  Irni  in  lln-m-srhrn  |o  Mrtntni'sUiUr.  inni  llln 
pown  will  |ni^lMvM\  jnovo  lo  W.wv  Wvw  l>ir  |Mnvi'i  ol  ;\  viyoioiin 
rtnil  inirnnrlv  Vitrll  pn-^iM^rtlil V.  ripir-^ninfj  ilnrll  nilll  \\v\\W\ 
f\»..ilrnnnr'sn  ol  nih'Vrtnt «»  iOnl  ;dwolnlr  nimriilv  ot  •srnlinnnit. 
Mm  M\\\  wtnnn^  mt  inipn'nini  in  nothing  no  nnn  b  wo.  iln-\  mic 
\\\  rrti  h  \^\\v\.  M\\  \\m  ini»Mi-5i  is  lonnnnnU  lv>iiii|  IviOliil  In 
\\\v  \imonn  limmnsm  i\\\k\  » onrritlmrnl"-.  tn  nliiih  •  iMlirrilion  in 
^nnliflr.  \\  in  niM  onlv  \W  Um\\  \\\;\[  in  i\iiiHi  i:illv  hiilil.-n  i\inl 
nnrm^  np ;  iln-  i\nn«l  .tml  lnv\u  ;n\(|  nonl,  ihp  n>V'«iriionn  noinr 
\\\\\\\l  \w  \\\\\r\\  onr  nnliMiln;\|iiv  in  tlintin^ni'^hnl  mnl  nf|i!\i!ni'(l 
1^\\n^  r\TVV  oilnn.  A\r  h[\h\\\\;\\\\'  tomrHlt-il  hrnrrnh  ilir  npolo'ii 
«M  M\v\\  n-rtppii^nn  ol  ont  noi  irti  ronM'niionidiiirn.  It  WHS  \\\\\\ 
\\\\\\\\\M\\  mnil.  iln*  nrrivi  vnntr  ol  hin  rtUhnlion,  \\\t\\  hv  loip 
tl\rM'  tirtpiNin^n  rtw-.n  .\\\y\  nlnnv,><l  \\\v  irrti  inrtn  wUhoni  rtilonnni'ni 
ov   »<i^n\nn«»       Hm  wninngn.  \\i\\v  ol  ovnrtmrni.  dwoiil   ol    il\»« 


wnr  \\P 


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vrflml  HifUM  liy  wliltit  llif  miilifif  Im  »i)it»-»«  ttfirti  ♦•muMilr-tl  llisiii 

i'<«)Mi"(Mtil.  |tiitilllif  llli'  rlfi't  I  itl  (I  (iirlltrti  liililHv  Tin*  MflliM> 
llkr  Mill  lli'il  |iiiii'iil4  III  (lie  (Ijiiilt'li  o|  ImIi'K,  Im  lirtltcil  dliil  tinf 
tmlitdiiftl,  iiihI  II   \<\  llil'i  iitttml  'iiiil  Intfllci  ihmI  ifiln'ilin-'iq  n|  \\\<t 

lllrtt  inillt»"«  Ith  Vt'l«r'  lllllt|lli\  rilil'i  inlliiili'M'd,  llic  (ilj.ji  j"(lf'i'»M 
III  wlilrli  II  Im  IimIiI  liy  Midi  lhlii|i  in  Hie  vfiv  littllifil'i  mI  iiilliUf, 
U'hli  ll  Im  'tit  iiMhH  «(|im|m'II  hI  uIiIi  'iiii|iiiMr.  Im  Ilili'llH'llil'-  ciimiii'Ii, 
I'm  It  Im  |i|f'i  I'ii'Iv  III  llli'll  MM  mIIiiiiIci!  (lull  iIiIm  |ililiiillvc  li;ililliil 
ni««'<  til  WIiIiiikiii'm  Wiiiijil  iiitml  «lmii);!lv  ti|t|ifrtl,  iiiitl  liv  wIimmi  If 
Wriilltl  lie  iilii'il  ti|i|ili'»liitrtl.  Mill  cvciv  iniMfi  wlm  iImm  IimI  In 
hImI  iipiiii  Innltlii^  In  WliHiiiiin'M  |immI(m  Tnf  wlitil  Im  iimI  llicif,  will 
li»'  Minn  It  In  ll,  fiinl  il  Im  iIiIm  cliMiif-iil  iil  (iliiii,  iiiivmhiIiIiciI  Im- 
llliiiilh  llitil  Im  llkt'lv  (m  iiiiik''  IHm  viimc  iMiiliiilii)!  " 

Willi  WIllllililirM  "  lii'inic  llililltv  "  Mlic  |)liMlMi>  U  llMiii  llic 
I.MlHlitii  7W/»<»I  Im  ti'iliiliilv  Mill'  n|  |||q  I  liiff  l(illl«),  tl  Ihlll  wt* 
Itllllil    Hill    fiiilllle'    ill  !i  ili'MvllH!  initIM  iil   lllt'Mlilc   |int'(,  lict  !II|m»"  ll 

Wiiiilil  hi'  111  U!ii  Willi  mil  ilniiicMili  mill  mmi  lul  IhmIIikIm,  Imii   In  n 

piU'l    (III    lllr    WIllllllMII  Mt  (llr.    will)    MIlllMllhlh'q    »l)Ml|li(      (•IIImIImII    ((If 

iIiihicmIIc  rlilMlloti,  will)  liliiiirlii'M  IiIm  iitlt-Kiiii  c  finiii  m  pMint  nf 
virw  witflp  till  rtllinil.'ll  iltlil  rtrililflllnl  iHmHih  IImiim  tilt-  ImmI  Mlf'lit 
Itl,  Witfir  lllnili'MlV  III  lltllllitili'Mlv  ;|M<  Iml.  iinil  wlli'li'  III!  llic  liIlN 
Mini    lilltl iillllM  Mi    till'    llllllUlll     llMllv   tile  I  ltlll(<lll|llMlcil    III    till'   ll^lit 

III  (IlllvclMiil  tirillllf     IIM  Mllir-f  initmc  Wtiq  itiipii  Ik  liiiii. 

Aurtln  In  llir  I'lilliiilrliiliiii  /'».m  I  (Iml  llii<  rnllMWIiii' mlniltfiltlf 
«lrtl('HHM(l  !  "  I'lif  i|ilfMllMll  wlllill  illwuv^  ttlllMl  lie  imki'il  n(  ciltll 
new  pitfl  Im  mil  wlii'llii'i  IiIm  ruiin  ii|iifrM  Willi  IIiimii(i|iIi'iI  tMmimi 
III  I  111-  miIimmIm,  I  till  wliflliiM  IiIm  iiii'mmhhi'  niillcM  ii  new  M'VcliHinn  m( 
IH'c  Nf)(itllvi<  •illlilmn  iiinl  iickIii  I  iimv  lie,  iiflcl^  illl,  lilll  (lie 
rilllillr  III  MIT.  A  Mliifjlc  «ci<llij{  willifM«i  Im  W'miIIi  till  llic  » IdMrd 
vVf'M  in  Illl"  WMilil  wlirii  ll  new  miiii  iImcm  in  ilic  ln'iivomi." 

"  Im-vlliililv.   (In-   liiiniM    iiml  imiir  Mti^iniil   Ilic   li(r|il   wliii  It 
IiiiimIm  on  Iclli-m  llic  iMii^cr  will  mIiI  »«ypM  lie   in  inlJiiMliiig  lln^iii 
sflvfi  Im  iIip  iipw  llliiiiiliiiilliin.  " 

A  illiiiMln  (HviMmIIv  m(  M|iiliiiiii  Im  H'Vf.llfii  (lliiiKl;  Wlillttliitl'=i 
lillifiiiii^iv  Onr  I  Hill  wliM  mIimwm  imii  Ii  ii|i|iifi  iiillMii  mT  IiImi  >{:iy<* 
IiIm  ^''.|(^li!^ll  h  Miiiiplc  Iml  "  iiliMiiliilcIv  liicrici  livf  "  iH\  Illl- 
othiM   litUiil,  tt  W(<<<lt>tii  vvtiU't   MjinikM  (ir  lih   "(ilmtiliite  ime  of 


■<*.-.  • 


lOO 


IN  RE   WALT  WHITMAN. 


words;  "  which  is  in  the  spirit  of  Col.  IngersoU's  remark  that 
he  "uttered  more  supreme  words  than  any  other  writer  of  our 
century."  Ruskin  is  reported  to  have  said,  there  were  words 
and  phrases  in  him  that  were  like  rifle  bullets.  Only  careless 
readers  can  pronounce  his  language  ineffective.  It  never  has 
the  air  of  being  studied  ;  on  the  contrary  his  more  striking  lines 
seem  like  lucky  hits,  and  I  think  it  is  Robert  Louis  Stevenson 
who  says  he  often  stumbles  upon  just  the  right  words  in  just  the 
right  order ;  the  poet  has  covered  up  his  tracks  well,  when  he 
makes  us  think  that  his  "supreme  words"  come  by  chance, 
or  that  he  stumbles  upon  them. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  his  friends  know  how  long  and  patiently  he 
searched  for  the  right  word.  He  once  told  me  he  had  been 
searching  for  twenty-five  years  for  the  word  to  express  what  the 
twilight  note  of  the  robin  meant  to  him.  In  "  Halcyon 
Days,"  meaning  old  age,  he  speaks  of  the  apple  that  hangs 
"indolent-ripe  on  the  tree."  "You  waters,"  he  says  in  an- 
other poem,  "I  have  finger'd  every  shore  with  you,"  "Every 
3;eel  that  dent?  the  water "  is  another  happy  phrase.  In- 
deed they  can  l)e  found  everywhere,  but  they  never  court  atten- 
tion and  seem  all  unconscious  of  themselves.  He  fulfills  the 
promise  in  this  respect  which  he  early  made  in  the  preface  to  his 
first  poems,  "  to  speak  in  literature  with  the  perfect  rectitude  and 
insouciance  of  the  movements  of  animals  and  the  unimoeachable- 
ness  of  the  sentiment  of  trees  in  the  woods  and  gra>s  by  the 
road-side."  His  absolute  use  of  words  is  well  seen  in  such 
phrases  as  these  :  "the  huge  and  thoughtful  night,"  or  the  "  teem- 
ing spiritual  darkness,"  "the  slumbering  and  liquid  trees," 
"  bare-bosom'd  night,"  "magnetic  nourishing  night,"  and  in 
such  lines  as  the  one  in  which  he  says  the  great  poet  "judges  not 
as  the  judge  judges,  but  as  the  sun  falling  round  a  helpless 
thing,"  and  in  entire  poems,  such  as  the  one  called  "  A  Leaf  of 
Faces."  Whitman's  power  to  use  words  can  no  more  be  ques- 
tioned than  the  greatest  of  the  antique  masters.  I  will  give  one 
more  sample — from  "A  Broadway  Pageant :  " 

**  The  Originatress  comes, 
The  nest  of  languages,  the  bequeather  of  poems,  the  race  of  eld, 


^    <^r- 


i 


WALT   WHITMAN  AND  HIS  RECENT  CRITICS.        lof 

Florid  with  blood,  pensive,  rapt  with  musings,  hot  with  passion, 

Sultry  with  perfume,  with  amjle  and  flowing  garments, 

With  sunburnt  visage,  with  intense  soul  and  glittering  eyes, 

The  race  of  Brahma  comes."  • 

The  power  to  use  words  was  in  W'Mtman's  eyes  a  divine  power, 
and  was  bought  with  a  price. 

"  For  only  at  last  after  many  years,  after  chastity,  friendship,  procreation, 

prudence  and  nakedness. 
After  treading  ground,  and  breasting  river  and  lake. 
After  a  loosen'd  throat,  after  absorbing  eras,  temperamenig,  races,  after 

knonied^je,  freedom,  crimes, 
After  complete  faith,  after  clarifyings,  elevations  and  removing  obstructions, 
After  these  and  more,  it  is  just  possible  there  comes   to  a  man,  a  woman^ 

the  divine  power  to  speak  words." 

One  critic  aslts,  "  Was  he  not  strong  rather  than  great?  Was 
that  magnificent  physical  energy  of  his  adequately  matched  by 
spiritual  energy  ?  Will  not  his  work  affect  the  future  rather  as  a 
passion  than  a  power?"  The  opinion  of  the  London  Times, 
certainly  a  not  over-friendly  authority,  is  that  Whitman  was  a 
man  of  power.  I  should  say  unhesitatingly  that  his  work  be- 
longs *o  the  poetry  of  power  as  that  of  our  other  poets  belongs 
to  the  poetry  of  sentiment.  He  is  strong,  but  he  is  more  than 
that,  if  we  are  to  make  the  distinction  indicated;  he  gives  one 
a  sense  of  magnitude  and  power  beyond  all  other  current  poets. 
He  is  not  intense,  he  is  calm,  far-reaching,  transforming,  with  a 
quality  about  him  that  goes  with  the  crest  and  summit  of  things 
— with  the  day  at  its  full.  One  is  astonished  to  hear  a  Pennsyl- 
vania country  paper  say,  "  He  is  either  a  great  original  genius, 
one  of  the  few  historical  figures  cf  literature,  or  he  is  nothing." 
An  editorial  writer  in  the  Chris/tan  Union  said  his  "  imagination 
was  so  great  that,  compared  with  most  contemporary  American 
verse-makers,  he  is  as  the  mystery  and  vastness  of  the  forest  to 
the  birds  which  break  its  silence  with  their  solitary  notes."  His 
power  in  this  respect  is  often  shown  in  single  lines,  as 

"  The  moon  that  descends  the  steeps  of  the  soughing  twilight." 

"  The  sound  of  the  belch'd  words  of  my  voice  loos'd  to  the  eddies  of  the 
wind." 


I 


I  J': 


tea  IN  RE  WALT  WHITMAN. 

*'  I  depart  as  nir,  I  shake  my  white  locks  at  the  runaway  sun."  ' 

■**  Rise  after  rise  l>ow  the  phantoms  behind  me." 

"  Where    sun-down    shadows   lengthen    over    the   limitless  and    lonesome 
]>rairie." 

"  Where  herds  of  buffalo  make  a  crawling  spread  of  the  square  miles  far 
and  near." 

"  The  white  arms  out  in  the  breakers  tirelessly  tossing." 

Any,  any  number  of  others  that  might  be  quoted. 

Quite  a  general  view  of  his  poetry  is  that  it  will  undergo  a 
sifting  and  winnowinj^  process  by  time — like  that  of  many  other 
poets — and  the  fittest  in  it  survive.  But  Whitman  belongs  to 
a  new  genus  of  poets.  We  can  of  course  cull  out  favorite  pas- 
sages and  whole  poems  from  the  mass  ol  his  work,  yet  ihe  dis* 
tinctive  value  of  his  book  is  not  in  its  finished  specimens  of 
verse,  its  poe«..c  selection  and  artistic  elaboration,  as  in  other 
poets,  but  in  the  vital  and  masterful  personality  which  it  holds. 
We  cannot  sift  or  carve  a  man,  we  must  take  him  entire,  and 
the  mass  of  Whitman's  work  must  survive,  or  all  perish.  His 
quality  as  a  man  and  his  power  as  a  spirit  fills  it  all. 

Some  of  the  newspapers  have  seriously  discussed  the  question 
whether  or  not  he  was  a  poet  at  all.  I  quite  agree  with  a  writer 
in  tlie  Nineteenth  Century  a  few  years  ago,  that  we  need  not  be 
at  all  zealous  to  claim  this  title  for  him,  and  with  "  Uncle 
Remus"  that  it  is  no  distinction  to  call  his  writings  nnerr.5. 
But  if  we  give  up  the  word  poet,  it  must  be  for  a  designation  that 
■means  more,  instead  of  less,  as  bard,  prophet,  seer,  apostle. 
^'  Leaves  of  Grass  "  is  primarily  a  gospel  and  is  only  secondarily 
-a  poem.  Its  appeal  is  to  the  whole  man  and  not  merely  to  one 
set  of  faculties,  as  the  aesthetic.  It  cannot  be  too  often  said 
that  the  book  is  not  merely  a  collection  of  pretty  poems,  then:  s 
elaborated  and  followed  out  at  long  removes  from  the  personality 
of  the  poet,  but  x  series  c  sorties  into  the  world  of  materials,  the 
American  work.,  piercing  through  the  ostensible  shows  of  things 
to  the  interior  meanings,  and  illustrating  in  a  free  and  large  way 
the  genesis  and  growth  of  a  man,  his  free  use  of  the  world  about 


-i 


WALT  WHITMAN  AND  IIIH  RECENT  CRITICS. 


103 


him,  appropriating  it  to  himself,  seeking  liis  spiritual  identity 
througti  its  various  objects  and  experiences,  and  giving  in  many 
direct  and  indirect  ways  the  meaning  and  satisfaction  of  life. 
There  is  much  in  it  that  is  not  poetical  in  the  popular  sense, 
much  that  is  neutral  and  negative  and  yet  is  an  integral  part  of 
the  whole,  as  in  the  world  we  inhabit.  If  it  offends,  it  is  in  a 
wholesome  v/ay,  like  objects  in  the  open  air. 

Whitman  was  ////artistic  rather  than  ///artistic.  His  orb  of  song 
was  modelled  after  a  certain  other  orb  with  which  we  all  have  at 
least  a  limited  acquaintance.  His  long  lists  and  enumerations, 
page  after  page  of  scenes,  actions,  trades,  tools,  occupations, 
nave  their  purpose;  they  give  weight  and  momentum  ;  they  sup- 
ply negative  elements  and  backgrountls  which  are  just  as  imi)or- 
tant  in  his  poetic  scheme  as  the  positive  and  select  elements. 
For  clews  to  his  poetic  methods  read  t.i  poems  called  "  Laws 
for  Creation  "  and  "  To  the  Sayers  of  Words." 

Gabriel  Sarrazin,  Whitman's  Parisian  critic  and  admirer,  de- 
clares, that  "overcrowded  and  disorderly  as  it  may  be,  if  heroic 
emotion  and  thought  and  enthusiasm  vitalize  it,  a  work  will  al- 
ways be  of  perfect  beauty."  The  question  of  "good  taste" 
does  not  come  in  in  discussing  Whitman,  because  his  final  appeal 
is  not  to  taste,  but  to  the  reader's  power  to  deal  with  real 
things.  .  '   ;'  .    . 

"The  learn'd,  the  virtuous,  the  benevolent,  and  the  usual  lerms; 
A  man  like  me  and  never  the  usual  terms," 

If  we  are  to  make  anything  of  this  poet  at  all,  it  must  be  upon 
terms  that  sound  strange  in  current  criticism.  The  interest  is 
shifted  to  new  grounds — from  the  theme  to  the  man,  from  art  to 
nature,  from  skill  of  workmanship  to  power  of  initiativCu 

>         '•  "  Behold,  I  do  not  give  lectures  or  a  little  charity, 

..  When  I  give  I  give  myself." 

This  is  his  supreme  distinction  :  he  gives  us  a  man  and  not  a 
statue ;  he  imparts  to  us  living  impulses  and  not  intellectual 
Formulas,  or  artistic  symbols ;  and  if  we  are  to  make  anything 
of  him  at  all,  it  must  be  upon  the  basis  of  the  primary  universal 


Ml 


« 


' 


[t 


I04 


IN  RK   WALT   WUITMAX, 


human  attributes  and  qualities.  His  tvork  is  an  utterance 
from  the  will,  the  afTections,  the  personality,  of  a  strong,  original 
man,  rather  than  from  his  intellect,  or  his  scholarship,  or  his 
skill  as  a  verbal  poet.  Ii  is  a  personal  revelation,  ami  has  more 
or  less  the  character  of  a  gospel,  as  have  all  primary  human  ut- 
terances from  out  the  abysmal  man. 

/  So  far  as  our  culture  and  civilization  tend  to  ♦'•"•  bleached,  the 
dainty,  the  depleted,  Walt  Whitman  is  ti  .  and  remedy. 

His  work  is  rich  in  the  (pialities  that  make  man  man  and  that 
make  life  masterful.  If  you  want  tiie  qualities  that  make  the 
scholar,  or  the  verbal  poet,  or  the  conventional  gentleman,  look 
for  them  elsewhere.  If  you  want  sweets  ratiier  than  tonics,  look 
for  them  elsewhere.  If  you  want  to  be  sootiied  and  lulled  rather 
than  aroused  and  dilated,  go  elsewhere.  If  you  are  too  delicate 
for  the  open-air,  keep  in-doors.  If  Whitman  is  too  strong  for 
you,  stick  to  Holmes  and  Longfellow.  I  have  not  a  word  to  say 
against  those  poets ;  they  are  what  they  are,  sweet  and  skillful 
singers  of  the  domestic  sentiments.  But  if  you  want  to  breathe 
the  atmosphere  of  a  sentiment,  not  of  houses  and  rooms,  nor  of 
books  and  pictures,  nor  of  family  and  fireside,  but  of  a  teeming 
continent,  or  of  the  globe  swimming  through  space,  go  to  Whit- 
man. He  will  familiarize  you  with  great  thoughts,  out-door 
thoughts,  cosmic  thoughts,  and  with  impulses  that  sway  races  and 
found  empires.  His  poems  are  rank  with  the  very  sweat  and 
odor  of  humanity.  The  daintiness  and  fastidiousnesj  of  the  art 
poets  are  not  here. 
The  whole  drift  of  his  work  is  to  get  rid  for  once  of  the  arti- 

^  ficial,  and  to  bring  to  bear  upon  the  reader's  mind  real  nature, 
often  rude  abysmal  nature.  He  cuts  under  the  artificial  and 
conventional  in  everything,  in  manners,  in  morals,  in  religion, 
in  vtrse.  To  have  used  the  highly  wrought  and  elaborate  poetic 
forms  would  have  been  at  war  with  his  purpose  in  this  respect. 
He  strips  the  soul  bare,  the  mind  bare,  the  conscience  bare,  the 
body  bare.  He  strips  from  the  muse  all  her  customary  trappings 
and  finery.  He  will  have  no  gags,  or  veils,  or  disguises  of  any 
sort.     He  lets  the  air  and  light  into  every  corner  and  recess  of 


H 


WAI.r   WHITMAN  AND  HIS  RECENT  CHITICH. 


»o5 


the  heart  and  mind.     What  man  thinks  and  feels,  his  base  and 
wicked  thuughts  ua  well  as  his  good,  shall  come  out. 

•'Come  I  nm  dcterminetl  to  unbare  this  brond  breait  of  mine,  I  have  long 
enough  stitl'd  and  cliok'd." 

"  Undrnpe  1  you  are  not  guilty  to  me,  nor  stnle,  nor  discarded, 
I  see  throu(;h  the  broadcloth  and  i;in(;ham  whi-thcr  or  no, 
And  am  around,  tenaciouH,  ac(|uisitive,  tireless,  and  cannot  i)e  shaken  away." 

One  rather  friendly  critic  says  Whitman  chose  to  live  in  the 
wilderness  of  the  human  mind  and  that  out  of  that  wilderness  he 
at  times  brings  us  something  very  fresh  and  tonic.  Well,  there 
is  something  in  this  wilderness  suggestion  :  he  lived  in  close 
contact  with  primitive  nature  undoubtedly,  but  he  did  not  shut 
himself  up  in  any  part  or  corner ;  he  was  free  and  makes  others 
free  of  the  whole.  The  reader  that  does  not  see  it  is  Man 
universal  that  speaks  here  does  not  see  very  deeply.  Convict 
Whitman  of  any  narrowness  or  partiality  whatever  and  you  strike 
him  a  fatal  blow.  The  one  thing  he  t»us/  be,  to  make  good  his 
claim,  is,  to  be  all-inclusive  of  humanity.  In  his  main  poem, 
the  "Song  of  Myself,"  he  sweeps  through  the  whole  orbit  of 
human  experience,  he  sounds  every  depth  of  joy  and  suffering, 
of  being  and  doing,  of  knowing  and  intuition  ;  he  delves  into 
the  past,  he  revels  in  the  present,  he  soars  into  the  future,  he 
identifies  himself  with  every  type  and  condition  of  man,  he 
sweeps  over  the  continent,  he  touches  upon  every  phase  of  the- 
life  and  manifold  doings  of  this  diverse,  widespread  complex 
people,  and  says  all  "  these  tend  inward  to  me  and  I  tend  out- 
ward to  them." 


"  And  such  as  it  is  to  be  of  these  more  or  less  I  am. 
And  of  these  one  and  all  I  weave  the  song  of  myself." 

•'  I  am  of  old  and  young,  of  the  foolish  as  much  as  the  wise, 
Regardless  of  others,  ever  regardful  of  others, 
Maternal  as  well  as  paternal,  a  child  as  well  as  a  man. 
Stuff 'd  with  the  stuff  that  is  coarse  and  stuff 'd  with  the  stuff  that  is  fine.'*' 


111 


ii! 


'toft 


t\  UK    WAl.r   WHITMAX. 


"A  Ivmnrt  witli  ihf  KimpIrM,  n  Itfiirhrr  of  iIip  ihotiKlitlnllpM, 
A  nnvlre  Iii-kJiuiIdh  yri  «»prrlrnl  i>f  myrlinl^  of  urniiotM, 
<  If  rvptv  tlllf  nivl  ''HM  ii>»>  I,  "f  rvrry  rrtMl<  rttl'l  tpliKlnH, 
A  Inimi-t,  mi'ihrtmc,  nHi^i,  Ki>ntlpninii,  Milni,  i|iml<ri, 
Tilmmpr,  f««py  mnii,  mwily,  Imvyrr,  phyMcinn,  prte*.!." 

A  HontDii  c  litir  of  WliiMnnn  <  i)inplaii\(Ml  llint  \\\n  poetry  wai 
not  noblt',  herrtnv  it  « pU-ltrnton  pride  nml  does  not  iiunl« «ie  the 
virtnrs  ot  luitnility,  ^clf  doninl,  i-lr.,  \\\w  rrnllil1^  l)\c  poet  by 
tlw  Icdfi,  livihi'i  ilvin  bv  ilic  spiiii.  'I'lic  i  hiiim'  ilml  Wlulnun'n 
pooliy  iflcliiiUf'^  piiile  is  (ully  iiul  by  tlic  (m  t,  tlial  il  iilso  vv\. 
el)nites  rtixl  bt'urs  iiloii^  in  rqni\l  tnrrtsnte  tlu-  amidote  of  pride; 
namely,  «\inpaiby.  Its  nyinpalby,  its  love,  \n  M  btoad  and  all- 
inrln'^iv*'  as  its  piidi-  is  ern  t  and  positive.  Wliitin.m  \v;is  aware, 
froni  the  ontset  of  bis  <  areer.  bow  imporlaiu  tliis  f m  I  is;  (or  be 
said  in  ibe  prefai  e  to  tbc  (nst  ed\lion  of  bis  poems,  in  1H55,  tbat 
the  son!  of  the  great  poet  "  bas  sympatliy  as  measnreless  as  ita 
pride,  and  the  one  balames  tbe  other,  and  neither  ran  airetrh 
too  f;M  while  it  streti  lies  in  ronipany  will\  tbe  otlier.  Tlie  in- 
most serrels  of  ait  sbep  with  the  twain,  'V\w  greatest  poet  lias 
lain  riosc  bewixt  bt)ih,  fln*l  they  are  vital  in  his  style  and 
thoiigbts."  , 

To  rom|ilain  of  the  \irge,  tbe  pressnre,  tbe  stretnionsness  of 
the  lv\dv  of  Whitman's  woik.  seems  to  me  very  mmb  like  i  onr- 
plaining  of  a  ship  muler  bill  sail,  or  oi  an  express  train  at  the 
top  of  its  speed.  It  may  nc^t  always  (all  in  with  one's  moo<l, 
but  the  poet  is  \.M  stn.  ing  one's  mood  ;  be  would  fashion  the 
mood  to  suit  the  verse,  "  Leaves  of  (Jrass"  is  imiestraiiied  in 
the  sense  th.it  great  a<  tion,  great  power,  or  the  (ore  es  and  pro- 
<  esses  of  N.tture,  are  unrestrained.  Is  a  man,  then,  never  to  let 
himself  ont.  never  to  assert  himself,  never  to  give  fnll  swing  to 
what  there  is  in  him,  by  reason  of  the  beauty  of  the  law  of 
obedieiu^e,  of  self-denial.  <>f  self-sarrifice  ?  Here  we  tomb  upon 
ethi<-al  considerations,  here  we  toneh  npon  the  rule  of  life. 
H(>w  does  this  rule  applv  in  .irt,  in  literature?  Ortainly  not 
by  checking  e(Tort,  by  thwarting  originality,  by  denying  genins. 
The  poet's  life  may  be  fnll  of  solf-rennnciation  ;  bnl  he  mnsi  not 
•deny  himself  t()  his  reader, — he  mnst  not  withhold  that  whi«-h 


n'Ai.r  HJ/iiMAii  AMt  HIS  HHrhwr  cuirirs. 


107 


defloM  liini  1)11(1  makr'M  hitn  wliitt  lie  in.  Ho  iimy  give  wny 
to  othi'tH  ill  lilc;  lint  III*  must  nut  ^ivt*  way  t«i  otlicfH  in  liii 
book.  If  he  ^iv(<n  ii<i  IVniiyHoii  or  Mniwiiin^  iimlcml  of  liiiii* 
Helf,  Wf  fi'cl  (lofr.'UiiUMl.  "  Coiisi  ioiisness  of  power,  entirely 
nelf « eiitrcil,  exults  in  inaiiifestntioii."  Why  shoiilil  it  not? 
Would  we  h;Uf  it  tli'iiv  itself,  and  refuse  the  nuuiifestntion? 
Why,  then,  do  we  |nott'st  amiiisl  it  in  Whitman's  case  P  Not 
liec  (tiise  it  rontravenes  some  ether  law,  but  sinipiy  because  it  it 
too  strong  for  us.  Whitman's  paxe,  especially  in  bis  earlier 
work,  has  that  pristine,  mn  onvenlional  ipiality  of  things  ami 
life  in  the  open  air,  —an  ehMiicnlal  fonc  and  inuuoiiitiiy  that  we 
catinot  always  stand  \  we  long  for  the  art  and  bric-u-brac  and 
cosiness  «)f  indoors. 

One  motif  of  Whilman's  work  is  to  exalt  and  glorify  man  nn 
be  is,  in  and  of  himself,  apart  fiom  all  spec  ial  advantages  and 
accpiisitions,  ami  to  bring  the  pliysii  al  or  animal  part  flush  with 
the  spiritual  and  intellectual.  A  Hritish  essayist  says  of  him: 
"  Whitinan  represents,  for  the  first  time  .since  Christianity  swept 
over  the  world,  tbe  re  integration,  in  a  sane  and  whole  hearted 
form,  of  the  instincts  of  tiie  entire  man;  and  therefore  he  has 
a  significance  \vlii(  h  we  vm\  scarcely  overestimate."  It  is  this 
entire  nmn  which  Whitman  stands  for  and  celebrates.  Chris* 
tianity,  or  the  perverted  form  of  it  which  has  prevailed  in  the 
world,  has  belittleil  man,  has  denied  and  degradeil  his  physical 
part  and  made  light  of  the  world  in  which  he  is  placed.  \\;l- 
ence  belittles  him  ;  it  goe-.  its  own  way,  and  finds  man  but  am 
accident,  the  ephemera  of  an  hour ;  democracy  belittles  him  by 
sinking  the  one  in  the  many;  the  individnal  is  nothing,  the 
masses  everything.  Whitman  ofTsets  all  this  in  the  most  deter- 
mined and  uncompromising  manner.  The  man,  ilie  individual, 
is  everything ;  the  whole  theory  of  the  univcrr,e  is  directed  to 
one  person,  namely,  to  You.  All  bibles,  all  literatures,  all  his- 
tories, all  institutions,  grow  out  of  yon  as  leaves  out  of  the  tree. 
Much  might  be  said  upon  this  point ;  this  thread  runs  all  through 
the  pi)ems. 

"  Wliocver  y«u  nre !    you  are  he  or  she  fur  wiioin  the  earth  is  soliil   and 
liqulil,,  ; 


il 


m 


f.V  Hh'    M.Ur   H  tUVMAX. 


\'v\\  A»p  l«p  ii»  ^Im*  IVit  w-hitrn  thf  ««M  *\\\\  wnn)i  li«MH  lit  j!te  »ky, 
t'VM  HiW*"  mrMf  lIlrtM  y»»«  rt»r  0\r  pipipht  rtiut  (hp  |»rtM) 

frS^v  Hinir  mn^r  \\\nn  \\\\\  \%  \\\\\\\<\\ii\\\\\ ,  " 

Wlnih^rtii  \\M  \\\v  poel  ii(  [\\v  \!,\vM  rosh^lr  ftih-pn  rtn  th<«v  ftp* 
jvrttrd  in  nirt(».  in  |irf»onrtlii\ .  in  \\\r  oiiUf.  in  imrn,  nnii  n» 
NrMnir  i  A)\\\  thr  «>«rrpinn  nirts"*  nioviMnvni  ol  l\lq  vrtst<  i<«  in 
Vri^jMt^H  vs'ith  ihrRf*  ihinp^.  IIm?  onlv  «r!«nrtin(  snunpstpil  a\\\\ 
\ht  onlv  »t»«»iirtini  ^li^ni^pil  \%  ihm  \>(  ilw  liilr  I*\iIUm  »hrtt  jtnrx  to 
il*  n\;nl(  rh«'  «i>iM'i  ol  tl\\n»til  (>n(i  nitn-iinnl  vrisi' no  ili>nl»t 
in^pnnr"*  ^\\y\  hrl)><«  Ininn  inh\  !»hii|\r  {\\i>  n\n'jc  o(  n\!\nv  n  |mhM  j 
Vmu  svIu  "»l^onl<l  wv  insist  ni^^n  diis  iMuiimlsn  vr^unini  l»cinn  in<- 
l|M><«n!  npon  r\»-»\  porHr  spnii.rtntl  vh(U|i»'  thi*«««  wiil^  linvlfsunpn* 
l^\\\\  xiioohnitrniT  who  \rpn<lirtip  i»? 

'V\\v  h\\  o(  \\{'v  oi  f)»v\l  j>orl»V  iM  B^^"^'  rt>i  !<»,  lir  llitti  \\o\M 
lo«'  h^<«  liiv  sliiUl  \\\\\\  \».  ho  ihrti  mvr'i  hini-^ili  \\\v  most  ih«>lv 
Bhrtll  yhf  m«>M  iWlv  ti?tTi\T*.  \Vh\tin;\n  innnvil  hinmoM  in  \\\« 
Ihonjiht.  in  »hr  K^Nf^ol'  his  tonnuv  rtnil  oi  ht*  IVUowx  j  ho  iil«»i\« 
tifio\1  hitnxrlt  with  ^\\  ivpo*  rtt\«l  »ot\«liiiot\>»  oi  tnoi^  ;  ho  litot!\lly 
1^>:^^^'  hiiwvli  tho  ^l^^t^^^•^  !\\\\\  r\\\\!\\  o(  nil  Ho  thiMiuhl  of 
hin^'trh  onh  rt<  he  thon^hi  of  othoi-*  in  rttnl  thi\Mi^h  hn\i"<oU. 
V«  hi!«  \ifo  ho  wns  fjnillv  oi  no  srlOookttijij  ;  ho  <lohhovrtiolv  put 
In  nil  ih,i<  tnon  tiMinllv  <«(ti\-o  lv>»-— in\tno«1irtto  xnoopsn  rtiut  rtp- 
plnn"5o.  \»^-nlih.  h^^^^o\•n,  Intntlv,  iViot\<U  th,n  ho  \\\[^\\\  iho  tnoi-?* 
IttUv  )\oo»1  «ho  \-«N\\  0  0>>n\  within,  Uo  <  ho<o  tho  hoii>io  )hh1  in 
his  ^^t^o^^v  niwi  in  hts  litx\  When  iho  M\pivt\\o  honr  o(  ttinl 
«>AM\<>  trt  h'i^ « x>t\iMt  V.  ht  !«<»t\^M  hot  A$  he  \V(\s  hwt  rthle  to  !»ot\'« 
ht*v,  ^v  inin»«it^»in^  h>  hov  wiMin\lo<<  ntuJ  \hit\g  !«oUlioin  ov»i  t>l 
iW  rtb«t\v\rtiux'  v^i  hix  «^yt^^^^A^hv  nt^ii  hn-v. 


it 


WALT  WHITMAN   AT  DATE. 


By  IWKACK  L.  IKAVUKL. 


]n\\H  AniUNniMN  SvMoNHs  linn  fprpitlly  «nltl ;  "'T,pnvp«  of 
<llH'^^,'  ultli  li  I  lliHt  tend  rtl  IIh'  ngp  (»r  (wpiity-flve,  iiiflinMii  pd  itie 
nutip,  |»filmn<»,  (liiin  uiiy  uilict  IxMik  Iwii  ditnc,  cxcrpl  \\\v  Hiblej 
inoip  il\rtn  I'lulu,  inoie  lltitu  (luriln'.'*  A  « onfession  m  fiiiiik, 
rlolldnn  so  pxultpil  nti  t'sllinuli',  avowed  by  •tiicli  it  nmn,  ( oin- 
min\d>»  nllt'Miion.  Fur  m  vidm-s  hip  Iipip  dislrilmlpd,  it  in  not 
In  voitp  oi  p(  lio  of  mIoiR  loii^s  dcitd,  or  ol  pioplipts  rpiiiptnlipipd 
!oi- spi'i  i!\l  nnd  Ipmpomry  ipimoti^  of  iittp  or  rrppd,  bill  Ire, in n  iiiun 
the  Bpleiied  flower  or  our  inotlern  deiiioi  im  y,  itn  Ainerlemi  ii 
wreiU,  rotiiwt,  oHen  dpi  ried,  liiil  idwnya  fnt  seeing  Anieiii  iin — 
Ihtil  llie  mnplesi  «inglp  nieswi^e  so  fur  known  in  lilpinlnre  is  lu  tird. 
•'  I'lxiept  tlip  Millie,"  il  is  held  ;  Itnt  the  Mililp  is  w  niosiiir,  roin- 
j)lex  In  rnnge  rtnd  iipprom  h,  evoked  of  niuny  hnnds,  onl  of  we 
know  not  whrtt  varied  londilions,  to  exeept  whii  h  is  lo  nmke 
no  exreplion  nt  idl. 

If  (he  indnnu'in  of  Svinonds  is  (o  be  nnifinned  or  its  rorrert- 
ness  is  even  siisperled,  u  streitin  of  inndiMlnble  irtininnilions  hns 
been  set  fh'e  In  (he  modern  wmld.  And  i(  is  to  some  of  the 
rtoweii;  idong  (he  wnv  iiml  the  wood  th^it  drifts  with  the  tide  (hut 
(lu"<e  no(es  me  dediniled.  We  need  not  tis  we  eunnot  get 
nwnv  from  the  imtn  tt»  the  book,  or  from  the  bonk  to  thp  innn, 
bn(  we  ntn  indieiUe  by  tomhes  rightly  besbiwed  how  nmn  nnd 
book  rnn  on  (oge(her,  und  beeome  in  iheir  wuy  vm  n(ive  of  de- 
nuMiiUv  in\d  its  fiiinre. 

While  the  world  knows  Wdll  Whitmitn  bv  nnme,  or  from  the 
eontroversies  he  hus  ioonseil,  il  is  often  strangely  ignorant  of  the 
ditvet  primiples  for  whirh  he  stands  as  a  writer,  of  the  gifts 
whit  h  distinguish  him  ;',s  a  person,  and  of  the  splendid  c-otirags 

(l.v.,) 


tto 


m  KK  WAIT  WHITMAN. 


with  which  he  h.is  passed  iritmiphnmly  thfoiigh  a  generrttion  of 
ftlmse  aiul  niisuiulerstainling.  My  |nirpose  liere  is  niititiy  to  de|)ict 
what  passes  for  his  average  daily  life.  How  stands  he  among  liis 
friends  atid  in  the  street,  liow  is  his  phih)sophy  lived  ont,  into 
what  rtnis  the  red  flootl  of  his  everyday  life?  We  have  known 
him  showered  with  defamation  on  the  one  hand,  and  on  the  other 
hand  ignored.  Vet  he  has  always  proved  to  be  fl  man  with  whom 
a  policy  of  avoidanc  e  was  not  wise,  and  a  policy  of  liriitalily 
futile.  Itis  great  friend  O'llonnor  loved  to  ilescrihe,  as  on 
a  memorable  day  to  me  not  long  before  his  death,  the  simple 
power  that  Whitman  asserted  in  the  tnerely  casual  deeds  of  his 
bfe  in  Washitigton.  O'Connor  would  tell  of  the  misludied  majesty 
of  his  physical  port — of  its  betra\al  in  the  carriage  of  the  head, 
the  swing  of  the  body,  the  ease  and  confident  e  of  the  stej).  He 
would  say  that  some  U)oked  to  applaiid,  some  to  disdain,  but  that 
ftU  looked,  and  all  were  indcfmably  moved  by  the  Imminence  of 
an  untisual  personality, 

There  have  been  discn><sions  of  the  form  of  Whitman's  work^ 
of  his  dislike  tor  hampering  traditions,  of  his  |)hilosophy  as  de- 
veloped in  religitms,  political  or  other  directions.  Critics  have 
doubted  his  art,  questiotied  his  integrity,  stood  aghast  at  his 
"impurity,"  been  dismayed  by  his  lusty  first-haml  power,  and 
shaken  wise  heads  over  the  alleged  downward  tendeut  y  of  his 
realism.  Yet  the  earlier  shock  yields  in  almost  every  vigorous 
person  to  steadying  influences.  There  is  no  ipiality  of  his  indi- 
viduality witho\tt  a  sin\ilar  history,  running  the  thread  of  enmity 
to  conquest  and  \mswerving  loyally.  Some  to  whom  at  this  mo- 
ment he  stands  pre-eminei\t  for  poetic  genius  were  not  long  ago 
prepared  to  deny  that  siich  a  gtjerilla  could  meet  the  first  trial 
of  poetic  virtue.  Worshipers  of  old  standards  are  friends  of  new. 
Victim  is  transformed  to  victor.  It  is  fron\  this  change  of  feeling, 
and  the  ipiality  of  the  many  who  have  come  in  touch  with  the 
poet  and  'lis  work,  that  there  appear  reasons  for  desiring  to  know 
the  h.ibits  and  humors  of  the  man. 

With  Lincoln,  Emerson  and  Walt  Whitman  as  jiositivc  factors 
in  the  turbulence  of  its  first  century,  America  has  no  need  to 
turn  apologetically  to  the  oKler  countries  and   to   past    times, 


WAW   WlltTMAN  AT  DAIK. 


til 


I  « 


When  t  once  asked  Wliitinan  what  three  or  four  names  of  ahso- 
hile  greatness  he  thought  Ainerir  a  liad  so  far  oderetl,  he  answered 
interrogatively  •  "  What  wonhl  yon  say  to  Washington,  Lincohi, 
Grant,  and  Kinerson  ?  "  I  have  fre(|nently  iieard  from  him  the 
higliest  mention  of  (Jooper  in  tlie  same  (onncction.  To  tliese, 
or  to  any  tithers  which  niiglit  be  insisted  tipon,  I  thj  not  liesitate 
to  add  liis  own  name. 

The  aureola  cir«:ling  Lincoln,  Emerson,  Whitman,  satisfies  the 
present  and  foretells  the  future  glory  of  our  national  life.  For 
nearly  a  quarter  of  a  century  the  fame  of  [jncoln  has  been  gather- 
ing its  shadows  and  laughter  into  the  evident:e  of  a  marvellous 
character  rooted  in  iniivei  ;al  soils.  Already  is  Emerson  current 
in  every  stream,  serene  in  every  area  of  spiritual  performance. 
Whitman,  the  last  of  the  triad,  threading  still  the  ways  of  this 
mortal  life,  living  a  new  yonlh  in  old  age — laboring,  believing — 
clear  of  soul,  prophetic,  losing  neither  sweetness  nor  sanity  as 
troubles  multiply  and  the  future  puts  on  somber  robes,  completes 
and  cements  the  chain.  i 

Hut  abating  here  nil  (|uestion  of  greatness,  I  wish  to  jot  roughly 
something  of  Wall  Whitman,  the  man,  as  I  know  him  in  these 
later  years.  I  assinne  that  he  is  eminent,  and  that  as  time 
absorbs  these  details  of  days,  these  throbs  of  passing  loss  and 
gain,  in  their  more  general  elTe*  ts,  what  "Leaves  of  Grass " 
signifies,  and,  fmthermore,  what  i olor  the  daily  life  of  the  poet 
has  worn,  will  be  increasingly  (picslions  of  interest  and  demand. 

Walt  Whitman  came  to  Camden  in  187.3,  'i'"!  ^  ''^^e  known 
him  ever  since.  It  is  one  of  the  pleasant  mysteries  of  our  inter- 
course how  our  ways  first  crossed,  for  neither  of  us  has  even  a 
faint  or  dulled  remembrance  of  an  introduction  or  a  start.  "  We 
simply  grew  into  each  other,"  said  Whitman — "  perhaps  always 
were  part  and  parcel  of  one  influence."  The  history  of  the 
years  preceding  this  change  of  habitat  are  well  known  or  easily 
accessible.  Whitman's  life  has  now  covered  seventy-one  years. 
From  1819  to  1855,  at  which  last  date  "Leaves  of  Grass" 
achieved  its  first  public,  expression,  Whitman's  experience  had 
been  most  varied,  always  in  the  line  of  the  preservation  of  those 
primary  rugged  (pialities  which  are  the  necessary  background  of 


\M 


\  f 


O: 


112 


JN  BE   WALT  WHITMAN. 


great  events  or  great  persons.  He  had  been  builder,  type-setter, 
reporter,  teacher,  editor;  and  through  the  associations  thus 
brought  had  penetrated  with  uniform  subtlety  the  shallows 
and  deeps  of  American  character.  Losing  any  ;:art  of  these,  of 
travels  North  and  South,  of  contact  with  class  and  mass,  would 
have  meant  not  only  a  loss  of  factors  vital  to  the  life  of  the  great 
poem,  but  equally  a  shock  and  draft  upon  its  prevailing  spirit. 
If  you  speak  to  him  about  these  potent  contributions,  he  will 
speak  to  you  of  the  importance  of  things  which  history  ignores 
or  forgets. 

Whitman's  immediate  touch  with  our  democracy  in  the  making 
must  be  remembered,  if  any  picture  of  the  man  is  to  be  gained. 

When  Whitman  was  born  (1819),  Walter  Scott  was  at  the  me- 
ridian of  his  fame;  "  Ivanhoe"  was  just  out,  and  not  long  after 
"  Quentin  Durward  "  appeared — "  both  of  them  masterpieces  of 
historic  and  literary  emotional  narrative,"  as  Whitman  expresses 
it  in  a  note  just  put  in  my  hands.  Scott  has  been  throughout  a 
great  and  attractive  character  to  Walt  Whitman,  especially  in  his 
personality  and  in  his  "  Border  Minstrelsy"  ballads.  Whitman 
has  been  fed,  as  Dr.  Bucke  has  remarked,  first  on  Long  Island 
scenery  and  the  real  seashore,  then  on  New  York  and  Brooklyn 
city  life,  superadding  the  southern  journeys,  the  secession  war, 
and  western  travel.  But  books  have  had  not  a  little  to  do  with 
his  initiative  as  well  as  with  the  growths  of  later  years;  curiously, 
those  "Border  Minstrelsy"  ballads  were  the  first  start  of  all, 
pointing  definite  ways  which  became  the  common  order  and 
safety  of  his  future. 

He  has  said  to  me  that  "  the  special  designs,  either  of  the 
artist  to  make  a  fine  work  from  aesthetic  or  poetic  or  imaginative 
or  intellectual  points  of  view,  or  of  the  moralist  or  religioso  from 
his,  sinks  into  quite  a  subordinate  position,"  in  the  scheme  of 
*'  Leaves  of  Grass." 

Walt  Whitman  is  often  spoken  of  as  a  man  of  details ;  but, 
after  all,  "Leaves  of  Grass"  is  a  spirit,  not  a  statistical  rehearsal, 
as  nature  is  a  spirit  and  not  a  count  of  the  leaves  of  her  forests. 
It  certifies  to  heaven  and  earth,  as  having  roots  in  each. 

Out  of  a  so  expansive  life — a  life  which,  while  careless  of  sub' 


tie 
in 


lie  I 


WALT  WHITMAN  AT  DATE. 


"3 


;of 


tleties,  has  turned  unfailing  reverence  upon  the  play  of  sympathy 
in  man — came  the  giant  figure  known  in  Camden  these  sixteen 
years  past,  and  with  which  my  own  fortunes  have  been  so  ten- 
derly  entwined. 

My  earliest  memory  of  Whitman  leads  me  back  to  boyhood, 
when,  sitting  together  on  his  doorsteps,  we  spent  many  a  late 
afternoon  or  evening  in  review  of  books  we  had  read.  I  am 
quite  clear  about  the  dread  I  experienced  in  the  face  of  his 
subtle  questions.  Once  I  took  him  my  copy  of  Castelar's 
"  Lord  Byron  and  Other  Sketches,"  which  he  read  with  joy  and 
warmly  applauded.  He  had  already  imbibed  a  genuine  love 
and  admiration  for  the  great  Spaniard,  and  to  this  sentiment  he 
is  still  faithful.  These  were  my  first  years  with  Emerson,  and 
the  questions  provoked  by  my  confession  of  this  fact  would 
startle  me  by  their  directness.  At  this  time  he  lived 
with  his  brother.  Colonel  George  Whitman.  The  house 
they  occupied  was  capacious — of  plain  brick,  finely  shadowed 
at  the  front  with  trees.  It  was  Whitman's  habit  in  milder 
•weather  to  spend  the  early  evening  out  of  doors.  I  often  hap- 
pened upon  him  as  he  sat  there  in  the  shade  enjoying  his 
word  with  those  who  passed.  His  living-room  was  in  the  third 
story  front,  which  faced  south.  But  I  was  as  apt  to  meet  him 
strolling  along  the  street,  or  on  the  boat,  as  at  his  home.  On  cold 
days  he  wore  his  long  gray  coat ;  in  very  hot  weather  he  might 
be  observed  on  his  way  without  coat,  vest,  or  suspenders,  distin- 
guished from  afar  by  the  glimpse  of  a  spotless  white  shirt,  open 
always  at  the  throat.  I  recall  many  such  approaches.  My  neb- 
ulous impression  then  was  of  a  large  man,  of  generous  nature, 
magnetic  beyond  speech.  All  my  earlier  views  tended  to  recog- 
nize him  as  man  rather  than  as  prophet — as  a  summing-up  of 
singular  personal  power.  Although  I  was  not  ignorant  of  his 
books,  or  inclined  to  underestimate  theit  gravity,  what  he  had 
written  seemed  dwarfed  by  the  eminent  quality  of  this  hu- 
man attractiveness.  He  rarely  spoke  to  me  of  his  work.  Co- 
pious in  narrative,  frank  and  clear  in  comment  upon  .current 
affairs,  especially  lingering  upon  the  details  of  the  lore  of  the 

streets.  Whitman's  spoken  word  or  speechless  presence  was  to 

8 


"4 


IN  XE  WALT  WHITMAN. 


me  a  high  and  incessant  resource.  He  lifted  my  common  ex- 
perience into  biblical  sanctity,  and  impelled  my  whole  life  to 
expanding  issues.  I  can  recall  how  vividly  he  would  touch  upon 
the  then  more  recent  hospital  experience.  He  had  not  the  least 
arrogance  of  speech:  his  attention  when  I  spoke,  his  curiosity  to 
grasp  the  pith  of  what  I  said,  was  unfailing,  "  There's  a  some- 
thing— oh  !  so  deep,  deep  ! — in  every  man,  worth  travelling  to, 
waiting  for — to  be  seen,  absorbed,  respected, — yes,  reverenced." 
I  have  been  fortunate  to  hear  Whitman  describe  with  multi- 
farious detail  the  circumstance  of  his  sickness  and  certain  con- 
sequences of  it  which  led  to  his  settlement  in  Camden.  It  ap- 
pears that  while  in  Washington,  from  1864  to  1870,  he  suffered 
several  partial  paralytic  attacks,  the  influence  of  which  he  suc- 
ceeded in  temporarily  throwing  off,  partly  by  medical  counsel, 
but  mainly  by  drafts  upon  that  private  reserve  of  wisdom  which  in 
all  later  perils  has  secured  him.  He  thus  stayed  what  afterwards 
was  proved  to  be  an  inevitable,  if  impeded,  tide.  But  finally, 
after  1870,  a  culminating  severe  spell,  in  the  form  of  the  rupture 
of  a  small  blood  vessel  at  the  back  of  the  head,  prostrated  him. 
The  trouble  was  complicated  by  the  death  of  his  mother  and  a 
sister.  He  had  seemed  to  be  recovering,  but  the  sad  conflux  of 
sorrows  produced  a  relapse.  Furthermore,  the  hot  weather  was 
approaching.  His  doctor,  W.  B.  Drinkard,  of  whose  wisdom 
and  noble  manhood  Whitman  frequently  speaks,  peremptorily 
ordered  a  change  of  locale.  Starting  for  the  New  Jersey  sea- 
coast,  he  broke  down  badly  in  Philadelphia.  He  was  taken  to 
Camden.  His  friends  and'  family,  hardly  less  than  Whitman 
himself,  anticipated  an  early  and  fatal  termination.  Neverthe- 
less, in  a  few  months  he  again  rallied,  going  off  into  the  country 
as  soon  as  able,  staying  there  under  plain  conditions,  having  no 
conference  with  doctors  nor  welcome  for  medicine,  making  love 
with  open-air  influences,  and  healing  himself  by  intuitions  that 
superbly  suited  method  to  man.  Thence  back  to  Camden  and 
permanent  settlement.  The  years  since  have  been  marked  by 
acute  physical  trials.  "  I  have  closely  gmzed  death  more  than 
once,"  he  says.  Back  of  repeated  recoveries  stands  the  fact  of 
his  great  rock-ribbed  heredity  and  constitution.    He  had  planted 


w 


WALT  WHITMAN  AT  DATE. 


"5 


his  birthright  in  eternal  seasons.  Drinkard  wrote  from  Washing- 
ton to  a  Philadelphia  doctor,  in  detailing  Whitman's  case,  that 
here  was  a  man  with  "  the  most  natural  habits,  bases,  and  organiza- 
tion "  he  had  "  ever  met  with  jr  ever  seen."  Dr.  Bucke,  whose 
authority  is  grounded  both  in  friendship  and  professional  in- 
sight, lays  stress  upon  Whitman's  exceptional  physical  qualities — 
his  stature,  his  build,  the  nobility  of  his  form  and  features,  his 
splendid  constitution,  the  remarkable  acuteness  of  his  senses — as 
well  as  upon  the  depth  of  his  moral  intuition,  and  the  subtlety 
and  truth  of  his  instincts. 

Whitman  at  times  describes  the  subtler  phases  of  his  trouble 
with  a  master's  trick — with  more  than  the  surgeon's  candor  and  the 
artist's  grace.  His  prostration  arose  from  a  poisoned  wound  in 
the  right  hand,  received  while  assisting  at  the  amputation  of  the- 
gangrened  limb  of  a  Virginia  Union  soldier,  to  whom  he  was 
much  attached.  Hand  and  arm  inflamed  and  swelled,  the  vessels 
under  the  skin  showing  like  red  snakes  running  up  to  the  shoulder. 
Though  seemingly  bettered  or  cured,  the  excessive  labors  and 
worriments  of  that  period,  with  the  saturation  of  hospital  malaria, 
through  those  hot  summers,  no  doubt  in  a  measure  sapped  even 
his  almost  perfect  organization.  Some  people  ask  after  his  sacri- 
fice. Why  should  he  have  deemed  it  his  part  to  submit  to  the 
axe?  '*  Nothing  overmuch  "  had  in  earlier  times  been  his  self- 
counsel.  But  in  the  presence  of  a  great  necessity,  such  barriers 
must  be  thrown  to  the  winds.  He  once  said  to  me  :  "  Perhaps 
only  one  who  has  seen  the  fearful  suffering  and  wholesale  deaths 
of  those  days,  for  men's  lack  of  care  and  aid,  can  understand  or 
sympathize  with  my  impulses  and  acts."  He  ministered  to  fully 
a  hundred  thousand  persons,  cheering  all,  making  no  distinction 
of  North  or  South,  alleviating  where  he  could  the  red  overflow 
of  discord  and  dismay.  All  his  speech  upon  this  topic  is  sub- 
dued. He  never  vaunts  his  choice  and  participation.  He  never 
sets  up  for  sainthood.  He  rather  protests  his  evil  with  his  good. 
This  chapter,  as  any  other  that  goes  to  portray  him,  must  be  read 
in  the  light  of  the  necessity  that  inspired  its  faith.  It  is  to  be 
neither  welcomed  nor  rejected  in  any  spirit  of  lusterless  display 
or  vulgar  modesty. 


i  I  jl 


ii6 


IN  RE   WALT  WHITMAN. 


I  will  not  linger  upon  this  earlier  history.  The  transition 
through  the  first  years  of  our  acquaintance  to  the  later  intimacy 
was  gradual  and  never  broken.  Since  it  has  become  known  that 
I  enjoyed  this  connection,  the  questions  put  to  me  vocally  and  by 
letter  have  been  multitudinous.  What  I  say  here  is  largely  in 
response  to  such  items  of  this  curiosity  as  now  recur  to  me. 

Walt  Whitman  is  a  large  man,  six  fsrct  in  height,  broad  of 
build,  symmetrical,  with  an  ineffaue  freedom  evident  even  in 
these  days  of  his  broken  physical  fortunes.  I?i  years  of  health  he 
weighed  fully  two  hundred  pounds.  His  head  and  face  betray 
power  and  fortitude  in  high  degree.*  I  have  a  picture  before 
[me  as  I  write,  a  rare  one,  taken  in  Washington  in  1863,  which 
'reveals  phases  discoverable  in  no  later  portraits.  The  beard, 
cropped  rather  close,  and  the  head,  with  its  elevation  and  un- 
shadowed energy,  express  immense  virility,  mingled  with  the 
most  delicate  evidences  of  emotion  and  sympathy.  His  com- 
])lexion,  while  still  fine,  is  nowadays  somewhat  paled  ;  and  yet  it 
has  the  same  marvellous  purity  and  transparency  which  of  old 
showed  its  unpolluted  origin.  The  rosy  pink  tint  of  the  skin, 
of  body  as  of  face,  and  the  skin's  peculiar  softness  and  richness  of 
texture,  are  unlike  similar  features  of  any  man  I  have  known.  His 
eye  is  dull — one  realizes  how  dull  when  he  is  seen  sitting  face 
to  face  with  his  friend  Dr.  Bucke,  who  has  an  eagle's  orb. 
Twenty  years,  with  their  history  of  physical  disaster,  have  dimmed 
and  troubled  his  sight  and  not  infrequently,  through  painful 
symptoms,  aroused  a  suspicion  of  impending  eclipse. 

His  voice  has  been  strong  and  resonant.  Full  of  music — a  rich 
tenor — it  charms  ear  and  heart.  It  has  high  tones  not  so  sweets 
In  ordinary  lalk  it  may  reflect  the  faults,  with  the  virtues,  of 
monotone.  But  for  depiction  of  event  or  repetition  of  poetic 
line  or  prophetic  utterance  it  is  equal  to  curious  and  exquisite  mod- 
ulations.    Its  range  is  simple,  like  the  simplicity  of  the  language 

*,His  head,  phrenological! y  considered,  may  be  a  study  to  many.  The 
chart  of  an  expert,  who  was  probably  in  his  day  the  best  in  America,  taken 
at  Clinton  Hall,  New  York,  July,  1849,  furnishes  curious  evidence.  Whitman 
was  then  in  his  thirty-first  year,  and  was  already  beginning  to  put  his  "  Leaves" 
in  shape.     The  substance  of  the  examination  may  be  consulted  on  page  25. 


■  ( 


■  \ 


WALT  WHITifAN  AT  DATE. 


117 


i' 


^^ 


itself.  He  would  say,  nature  has  her  few  elements  and  works 
these  into  infinite  combinations.  This  is  the  text-thought  of  his 
art,  whether  manifested  in  tone,  word  or  song,  I  have  heard 
him  raise  his  speech  in  argument  till  it  was  as  shrill  and  impera- 
tive as  a  bugle,  ind  talk  to  babes  in  tones  that  cooed  like  a  cra- 
dle song.  His  gestures  are  few  and  effective.  He  has  an  ex- 
traordinarily large  ear,  set  at  an  unusual  line.  His  hand  is  the 
hand  oi  laborer  and  scribe,  large  in  bone  and  sinew  and  shaped  for 
strength  and  beauty.  In  all  the  years  of  my  knowledge  of  him 
he  has  been  lamed  below  the  hips,  so  that  I  have  never  seen  him 
in  halcyon  vigor.  His  paralysis  from  the  first  deprived  him  of 
effective  locomotive  power,  and  the  sad  strokes  of  1888  almost 
utterly  removed  the  old  certainty  of  support.  TJie  severeijt 
loss  has  been'on  the  left  side.  Apart  from  the  right  arm,  which 
still  maintains  some  actual  vigor,  his  physical  energies  have  de- 
clined and  departed. 

It  is  almost  superfluous  to  add  that  "  the  good  gray  poet  "  is 
no  misnomer ;  the  silvered  hair  and  beard,  the  customary  suit  of 
gray,  the  wide-brimmed  gray  wool  hat,  combining  to  preserve 
the  integrity  of  the  term. 

Whitman  does  not,  either  at  first  glance  or  finally,  suggest  the 
intellectual  type.  He  never  overwhelms  by  a  show  of  the 
knowledge  which  the  schools  propound.  He  suggests  power, 
mass,  repose — carrying  a  train  of  qualities  which  might  be  called 
Greek.  I  went  to  him  once  with  William  M.  Salter.  On  our 
exit  the  visitor  exclaimed :  "  What  a  beautiful  face !  and  his 
voice,  too,  how  grand  !  I  have  never  before  realized  such  a 
presence."  And  here  is  in  fact  the  word  which  better  than 
any  other  compasses  Vf]\\im2in— presence.  To  read  him  in  print, 
to  observe  him  by  his  familiar  fire-ide,  is  all  one.  Everybody  I 
take  there  is  first  of  all  moved  by  the  mere  port  and  odor— the 
magnetic  mystery— of  his  person.  They  seem  effected  as  by  new 
airs — breezes  from  uplands  unknown.  I  never  heard  any 
one  remark  initially  his  brains,  smartness,  erudition,  as  they 
infallibly  do  of  others,  though  these  qualities,  too,  are  unmis- 
takably present.  Group  him  with  the  happiest  selection  of  men, 
and  he  easily  looms  above  them,  however  in  special  ways  any 


(11 


.1  !S 


ii8 


IN  RE   WALT  WHITMAN. 


one  might  be  regarded  as  his  superior.  I  have  been  present  un- 
der such  circumstances,  in  his  bedroom  and  elsewliere,  when  he 
was  conversationally  and  pictorially  the  central  figure  by  right 
which  no  one  could  dispute. 

In  his  parlor,  one  cold  night,  I  said:  "You  are  an  open-air 
god — this  does  not  seem  your  place  I  It  is  as  if  we  plumped 
an  oak  down  in-doors,  and  said,  'There — get  lifel'"  He 
laughed  and  said :  "  However  I  ought  to  be,  here  I  am — here  is 
the  oak  1  "  But  the  oak  keeps  its  grandeur,  outspreading  thresh- 
old and  roof-tree  to  the  latest  day. 
^  Whitman's  first  years  in  Camden  were  spent  boarding  with  his 
brother  and  sister-in-law  in  Stevens  street.  The  Boston  perse- 
cution (the  threatened  lawsuit  against  the  Osgood  edition)  for  a 
year  or  two  excited  the  usual  curiosity-sale  of  his  books.  The 
resultant  income,  combined  with  certain  generous  and  accepted 
tenders  of  George  W.  Childs,  enabled  him  to  purchase  the  little 
wooden  house  in  which  he  has  now  for  eight  years  dispensed  a 
modest  hospitality.  It  is  a  plain,  box-like  building,  with  two 
simple  stories  and  a  slanting  loft,  divided  into  six  rooms  and  a 
bathroom.  Up  to  June,  1888,  the  parlor  wa"?  both  work-room 
and  reception-room,  though  it  may  have  occurred  at  times  that 
he  wrote  or  read  in  the  room  above  Of  late  the  latter  has  re- 
ceived all  the  honors  of  occupancy.  It  is  but  rarely  that  he  goes 
down-stairs  during  the  day.  All  his  meals  are  eaten  in  his 
*' workshop."  Special  visitors  are  received  in  the  parlor.  In 
the  evening  he  will  in  some  seasons  sit  at  one  of  the  lower  win- 
dows, often  after  his  trip  in  the  wheeled  chair,  often  if  not  going 
out  a^  ill.  He  will  wave  his  hands  to  friends  as  they  pass. 
With  hat  and  coat  at  careless  ease,  and  hair  stirred  by  gentle 
breezes,  he  haloes  the  spot.  Not  infrequently  will  he  remain  an 
hour  or  more  in  his  chair  out  on  the  sidewalk.  Strangers  will 
stop  and  talk.  Children  will  approach  him  and  make  their  play- 
ful feints.  There  is  no  chance  that  any  chapter  in  the  shifting 
tale  of  the  street  will  escape  him.  "  This  is  a  good  enough  throne 
for  any  man  :  I  bring  all  things  to  my  door." 

There  have  been  long  periods  since  June,  1888,  during  which 
he  has  not  left  his  room  except  for  the  bath.    Self-helpful,  gently 


WALT   WHITMAN  AT  DATE. 


119 


■f^ 


forbidding  even  minor  attentions,  he  is  yet  infallibly  cautious. 
The  trips  he  takes  about  the  house  are  possibly  more  painful  and 
toilsome  to  those  who  watch  than  to  him.     The  wheeled  chair 
was  one  outcome  of  the  dinner  fund  in  1889,  in  addition  to  n 
surplus  in  cash.     It  has  been  a  great  boon.     The  horse  and 
buggy — the  historic  gift  of  a  group  of  loving  friends — were  sold 
in   1888,  in  the  conviction   that  they  would  never  be  needed 
again.    They  had  been  a  lease  of  larger  life.     Daily  the  drives, 
daily  the  refreshment,  daily  the  new  earth  and  new  sky.     Some- 
times he  was  willing  to  be  attended,  sometimes  he  would  prefer 
to  be  alone.     He  would  cover  good  stretches  of  the  surrounding 
flat  but  fertile  country,  and  delight  in  every  evidence  of  thrift 
and  prosperity.    Though  often  in  Philadelphia,  his  main  driving 
was  done  on  the  good  pikes  running  out  of  Camden.     The  land- 
scape, the  farms,  the  crops  were  a  never-failing  exhilaration.     I 
have  lounged  by  his  carriage  on  the  boat,  and  had  his  greeting 
as   lie    passed   me   on    the   road,    the    head   erect    and    beard 
floating  on  the  wind.     His  salute  on  a  crowded  street  liberated 
my  heart  from  its  commercial  shadows.     I  remember  how  one 
recognition  impressed  me  in  the  bustle  of  Philadelphia  life,  a 
summer's  day,  years  ago — the  contrast  of  his  serenity  with  the 
impatieoce  of  everything  about  him.     But  he  says  :   "  I  like  best 
to  brush  up  against  all  this  bustle  and  noise — then  run  away 
from  it     ...     I  respect  its  necessity — all  that  it  does  and 
means     .     .     .     but  my  old  head  grows  dizzy  in  its  midst." 

Whitman's  birthday  in  1888,  May  31,  was  marked  by  a  recep- 
tion tendered  him  at  Thomas  B.  Harned's  residence.  It  was  a 
simple,  domestic  occasion,  which  he  much  enjoyed.  A  supper, 
the  dropping-in  of  a  few  friends,  informal  talk,  a  little  music, 
congratulations,  filled  up  the  festive  hour.  That  night  I  took 
him  the  first  proofs  of  "November  Boughs."  Thenceforward, 
our  daily  intercourse,  for  work  or  friendly  enterprise,  was 
unbroken.  Within  the  few  days  that  followed,  June  2d  and  3d, 
occurred  those  several  slight  paralytic  shocks  which  left  such  se- 
rious results.  He  was  with  us  at  Harned's  for  dinner  on  Sunday, 
June  2d.  In  the  afternoon.  Dr.  Bucke  surprised  us.  We  had 
supposed  him  in  Canada,  but  he  had  come  unannounced  into  the 


T' 


h 


H 


\ 


Stilton  with  n  unniliuy  ilcli'^iitioii.      I.itli'r,  when  Wliilinitit'fi  cnr- 
rliiKO  tlnivi'  ii|i,  III'  iipoln^ifnl  in  ClifTitnl,  "  I  liiul  inltnilcd  ^iv- 
iii^  Villi  tliU  lii|i,"  iinil  Weill  itir  Willi  l)r    Mm  kc,  wlm  Imd   Itnl  n 
Inirl    sji.tt  t'    III    rciiiiiiii.      Allt'i    tliivin^    iilmiil    iiiis(  clliiiicoiisly 
III'  Icll  Hill  kc  at  (lie  foit y  niiti  lumlctinl  oil',  iinw  alitnc,  into  the 
ntiintry,  iiuiiliwanl,  In  wlml  iHnillnl  IVii  Slum'.     Ilrro  hit  horno 
Will  lilted  iiiln  till"  wiln,  iiiitl  Wliiliiiiiii     llic  Imii^jlilv   hflnwaic 
rtt  Ills  liTl,  a  Mpci  kli'Ms  skv  iiviilir.iil      spi'iil  wliiil  lie  ilcm  iihcii  i\n 
an  uiiH|<(Mkalil('  liiiiii  ill  I  (»iiti'iii|iliiliiiii   nl   llu*  siiiiscl.      Wliollicr 
thin   may  liavc    lii'cn  iin  aiilioiis,  m   liiviiiisc  ol    hhiih'   sIiiihIhm- 
iiiK.  now  aioiwnl,  Iniilciiry,  lie  HUirornl  a  « lull,  atlciuiiMl    willi 
si^im  «»!    |),nalv'ti'<.   in  tin*  rvciiinn.     Sliit  km  Hum  in   liis  looiii 
wlini  aloiio,  and  in  llu>  midst  ol   liin  Hponf{in^  oH,  lie  sliililioiiiiy 
rcrtaincd    from   rallinn   asMiHlaiirc      Mill    for  what   followi-d  wo 
Khoiild  nrvcr  have  known  that  Iiimo.  in  \m  privary,  lie  had   inri 
with  a  tiitiral  cxpcru'iK  c.       Ho  told  lis  Hiilisn|iit'iilly  that    ho 
had  di'tftniiiu'd  to  li^lil  the  liatllc  out  Hiii^lc  haiuh'd.      Tin'  next 
lotcnooii  iMilv    ho  Niistainod  aiioilirr  slim  k,  and  toward  noon  a 
Ihiid.       1    had    « omo  over  that  div  with  proofn,  to    Ihid   him 
upon  Iho  loiin^o  in  the  pallor,  llainod  and  Mrs,  Davis  prosont, 
at  his  sido,  and   ho  oiuliMvoiiii(^  in  vain  to  lorovci  his  inipaiicd 
HpoiM  h,       'rhoiif{h     ho    liati    siiU'oioil    many    similar    Mows    in 
years  nono.  hoictoroio  aitinilalion  had  liron  in  no  wav  alTn  tod. 
I  siipposo  I  wont  y  mimitos  olapsod   lioloio   ho  rofiaiiiod  soil-con- 
trol.     I'o   Mis,    D.ivis'    iiupiiiios   ho   rospondod   thai    ho   would 
so()n  lio  lioltoi.  lull   if  ho  woio  not  it  would   lio  all    rif^lit.     Yot 
his  losiliom  0  was  so  prompt  that  lu  lore  I   loft  ho   lookod   i  iir- 
Rorily  at  nil  the  pr«)ol"s,  and   aiiswoiod   all   my  i|U0Htions.      The 
ensiling  woi-k  was  a  bad  one,  but  he  was  (U)wm  stairs  ovorv  day 
ami  would  diilvlalk  proof  with  mo  in  theevoniiin.     On  .Satmday 
night,  whon   Hiuko  wont  with   llarnod  and    with  mo   to  Miokic 
ntioct,  Whitman  appoarod  to  bo  swept  to  iho  border  line  of  (  ol- 
lapse,  and  there  wore  hours  on  Sumlay  when  we  ah  ieit  that  ho  had 
romc  near  his  end.     At  this  jiimlme  Dr.  Osier,  of  I'liiladelphia, 
was  called  in  fi>r  eonsultalion.     It  was  readily  soon  that  Wnilman 
was  in   no  condition   to  live.     Hut   the  application   of  drastic 
mcasvircs  produced  a  marked  cliaiige  in  the  night.     Monday, 


mtffimmt^i^" 


WAt.r   WniTMAN  AT  ItATK. 


1 1 1 


, 


f 


llicrcfiiri',  IimmimIiI  im  iinirrr  nil  iiik  hmdrfl  hope,  Hii«  kc  had  to 
f(ii  hiiiiip  wilhoiil  Tiirlhcr  tiirryiiig.  t  nliall  tirvrr  TiirKct  hid  (le< 
)iailiirr  the  Holcinii  ( mtvi)  timi,  on  my  huU'  m  oh  hit,  that  Home 
IHMt  in  ;ill  w;m  iiK'viliilili',  Rrt  (ivriy  110111  lliin  itltn<  k  Wim  tnlioim 
and  never  ;ilm(i|iile,  Wliitinan  iilwayft  altiiliiiird  lim  relcimc  to 
|)r.  Ilili  k»''N  piem-iHo  and  "  alfe»  lioinitr  cxfiriHC  of  cxpciiiMWO 
niid  Hkill."      lie  ralh'd  it  "  piilliiiK  HaTtly  from  a  rhmc  call." 

'riie  wliolo  of  lliiii  yriir  Imd  its  HlindnwH  and  doiililn- -firsli  n»- 
millll'*,  fresh  leidVeiies.  VVIiilmiin  ii'^tnied  liir  ;  "  VVc  iiifiy  f^o 
down  any  duv.  Tlie  old  Hhipdiniiot  hsl  lor  ntiiiiy  mnic  voyages 
nt  the  iK'Ht.      Milt  the  \\:\\!  is  ntill  up— I  am  •tlill  at  the  wheel  I  " 

ill  till"  mean  lime  we  proecedcd  with  our  w  hemes,  prodiii  iiiff 
"  Niivemliei  IImiij^Iis"  and  the  llioiimind  p.i^ed  imlM^rapli  edit KMl 
ol  his  (  oinpleir  W(Mks.  ill  tKM()  we  pi  ml ed  an  edition  ol  "  i,eiiveH 
ofdiass,"  III  I  rieliralion  of  his  liiitlidjiy.  "  Novemlier  lldu^^hs  " 
was  slow  in  the  makiiifr.  Spells  of  illness  liiiidr  rolililiiioiis  woik 
impossihic  ;  hilt  he  heroii  ally  persevered.  I  left  proof  with  hint 
raeh  eveiiiiii^  on  mv  letiiin  lioin  i'liil;idelphia,  and  he  would  ex- 
amine it  the  toijdwin^  day.  lie  thoroughly  resperled  my 
aiitoiioinv,  never  oin  c  crossing  my  traiisac  tioiis  with  priiiti-r  or 
liinder.  lie  hati  a  keen  oyc  for  mistakes  in  the  types,  his  ror- 
rretlons  were  alw.iys  rlear,  and  his  dctermiiialion  to  have  thiiij.,'s 
hifl  own  way  was  .ilisnliile. 

"  Novemher  Houghs "  «:oiilained  liolh  prose  and  verse,  the 
latter  f^rotiped  as  "  Sands  at  Seventy  "  and  ro  arranged  as  to  he 
iiK  orporated  with  all  later  editions  of"  Leaves  of  (Irass."  I  ic- 
memlier  our  dim  iiisinn  of  this  headline  at  I  larned's  lidile,  one  Siiii- 
dav  previous  to  Wliilmaii'H  illness.  Whitman  had  an  alternate, 
and  then  nn  alternate  lor  the  alternate — and  we  voted  for  l!ie 
words  he  adopted.  There  was  plan  and  plan  until  the  last  loin  h 
was  secured.  I  never  found  him  rearhing  out  at  random  or  throw-, 
mg  his  work  together.  Neither  did  he  hiiild  in  any  formal  sense. 
He  set  his  streams  free  and  let  them  find  their  nalnr.i'  nnioii.  Sted- 
man  classes  VVhitmaii's  Lincoln  poem  with  F.owll's  ode — Imt 
there  is  every  differem  e  hetwecii  them,  as  between  a  doiid  or  a 
hrook  that  floats  or  Hows  in  the  humor  of  freedom,  and  a  stately 
arch  that  is  deliheratelv  built. 


ut 


rx  KK  iv.4/r  ^^■rnr!^rA^^. 


Wlutm.in  likes  a  Ivmdsome  i^^pe-  He  li;\to«  lo  have  rt  rhnpter 
close  at  the  end  of  a  page  ;  wonld  ratlicr  rut  off  a  precious 
paragraph,  as  he  ^M  in  "A  Hackwaril  (ilance,"  than  leave 
the  eye  offended.  So,  too,  wonh'  he  areoiuinodate  poem  to 
rircnmstanre.  A  line  too  much  or  too  little  did  not  worry  him. 
He  never  quarrelled  with  necessity — made  it,  rather,  his  agent, 
sniiplicaiing  his  a]>proval.  His  insertions  were  circmnsiiect  and 
left  no  jar  on  tin*  ear.  His  bine  pencilled  excisions  were  made 
without  ion^p\m<  tion.  The  little  poem,  "  Memories,"  was  writ- 
ten on  the  margin  of  a  jiroi^f  sheet,  to  fill  \\\)  a  imge.  He  always 
had  a  nohle  line  ready.  His  verbal  ear  was  exact  and  exacting. 
Two  or  three  (ff  the  poen^s  were  written  in  this  time  of  his  great 
illness,  to  run  in  on  p;^ge  40^^. 

"1  always  know  what  1  want  before  1  get  through,"  he 
laughingly  assiires  me,  "but  1  do  not  always  see  all  the  details 
<  lear  at  the  beginning.  ...  I  feel  about  for  the  lay  of  the 
griMmd."  And  vet  he  is  tpiick  to  flash  out  approval  on  occa- 
sion. He  says  he  is  "  disi dvered  "  by  intuitive  people — that  he 
finds  he  really  has  no  secret  plan  or  thought  which  somebody 
does  not  detect. 

To  ivmcmber  "  N(iw  rrecedent 'S()ngs,  I'virewell,"  and  "  A\\ 
Evening  Lull,"  with  the  fiM'itnote  thev  trail  in  their  wake,  is  im- 
posed upon  anv student  of  Whitman  who  realizes  how  profoundly 
t^ian  ntul  work  ntn  one  into  the  <iI]um-:  as  Ingersoll  woidd 
■jMit  it,  how  all  points  to  the  book,  or  the  person,  called  "  I,eaves 

.>r  r,r,\ss." 

Whitman  was  most  ]vitient  with  the  printers.  None  beyond 
the  first  and  always  fleeting  shades  of  irritation  appeared  at  any 
time.  When  anything  pleased  hinr,  he  always  wished  to  send 
some  book  or  coin  or  portrait,  in  recognition — for  instance,  to 
tlie  bov  who  took  his  luoofs.  tii  tlie  ftueman  who  anticipated  his 
desires  and  realized  his  taste,  lo  the  biuilcr  who  forecast  or  con- 
firmed his  design.  "  How  mu(  h  1  owe  to  that  man  Mirick, 
who  bosses  the  cori^posing-room.  and  Downs — you  say  his  name 
^s  IV-iwns? — the  jMoof  teader.  1  vo\M  not  tell.  .  .  .  They 
anticii>ate,  they  more  that^  fulfill  me.  my  wishes.  .  .  .  t 
Jiave  l>een  mainly  fortunate  in  my  bookmakers — but  I  never  fell 


WA L r  irW / VMA N  AT  PA TE. 


»23 


into  better  hands  than  these.  ...  So  you  nntst  treat  them 
well — give  tlieni  my  love— in  tioihin^  hidr  our  feelings.  .  . 
1  always  have  a  suspicion  that  these  print-fellows  anyhow  crown 
all  the  rest." 

His  (  antion  is  a  finality  to  be  tluly  tnulershnxl  and  reinenihcred. 
I  never  knew  him  to  do  anything  in  a  hurry.  The  printer  could 
not  get  a  snap  "  yes  "  or  "  n(J "  on  any  question.  He  would 
insist  on  full  time  to  weigh  every  problem.  He  never  let  go  his 
task.  Whatever  the  difficulties  or  tlclays,  he  held  fast  to  the 
native  call.  "  Metier  inc  for  mine  than  any  other  for  me,"  he 
wotild  answer  when  expostulated  with.  Some  of  his  friends 
thought  he  ought  to  give  the  books  into  other  hands.  He  would 
not  do  it.  He  liked  counsel  well,  but  likcfl  better  the  privilege 
to  refuse  it.  Hut  he  was  always  gentle.  I  lis  nays  were  sweeter 
than  the  yers  of  other  tnen.  I  always  felt  free  to  give  tny  opin- 
ions. Sometimes  he  would  adopt  them,  sfunetimes  not,  but 
whether  yes  or  no,  never  with  flourish.  He  had  sut  h  a  fascinat- 
ing way  of  following  his  notiiuis,  after  having  listened  to  all 
that  could  be  said  in  critic  ism,  that  you  were  not  suie  he  had 
not  abscrbed  your  own.  The  doubts,  dismays,  to  tne  almost 
tragic  anxieties,  out  of  wliii  h  "  November  Houghs"  was  born, 
gave  it  warrant  of  fire.  Tliis  book  threw  up  numerous  (|ues- 
tions.  One  of  them  attached  to  the  fate  of  the  essay  on  Islias 
Hi(ks.  It  was  oidy  after  mm  h  persuasion,  and  after  the  devel- 
opment of  the  fact  that  our  book  was  to  lack  in  bulk,  that  he 
decided  tf)  include  it.  'I"he  piece  was  iu;t  really  finished, 
was  not  all  that  he  intended  it  to  be,  but  he  pat(  hed  it  together, 
smoothed  the  rough  joints,  wrote  a  prefatory  note,  and  let  it 
go.  When  I  remarked,  "  Its  proud  merit  art  lies  the  book," 
he  responded,  "Can  it  be?  Can  I  have  won  my  battle  after  all? 
.  .  .  It  has  been  in  me  for  many  a  year  to  say  the  best  that 
tnav  be  said  of  IIi(  ks."  Though  Walsh  had  exper  ted  it  for 
J.ippincotf s,  the  events  detailed  hurried  it  into  tliis  volume. 
While  it  had  not  t»een  made  complete,  the  insecurity  of  his  ten- 
ure, and  the  desire  to  supervise  its  production,  had  disposed  him 
to  f(  <  I  exctised  in  laum  hing  it  without  additiiui  or  elaboration. 

We  followed  this  vohime  with  the  "complete"  Whitman,  con- 


144 


IN  RE   WALT   WmiMAX. 


taiiiing  all  in  poetry  or  prose  to  that  day  printed.  The  "  Note 
at  Beginning  "  and  "  Note  at  End,"  in  tlie  big  volume,  and  the 
title  page,  wero  new,  and  were  the  subject  of  much  debate.  Hoth 
notes  were  quite  impronii)tu.  We  approached  and  pursued  the 
new  task  under  mucli  the  same  anxiety.  Whitman  was  vigilant, 
however  much  it  cost  his  body.  Errors  that  had  passed  into 
earlier  editions,  (aught  by  him  or  his  iViends,  trifles  of 
punctuation  or  spoiling,  were  duly  adjusted.  He  continued 
to  demand  proof  till  the  last  letter  seemed  in  right  joint. 
Whitman  always  keeps  copies  of  his  books,  in  whic  h  to  indicate 
the  discoveries  of  successive  readings.  With  each  new  edition 
he  makes  some  change.  He  always  says  that,  though  the  earlier 
volumes  may  have  a  "curio"  value,  the  latest  have  the  only 
full,  intrinsic  worth.  He  owns  the  plates  of  "  Leaves  of  Grass  " 
and  "  November  Houghs."  The  plates  of  "  Sjjecimen  Days  "  be- 
long to  McKay.  Hut  the  "  complete  "  Whitman  and  the  birthday 
cnlilion  appear  without  the  name  of  a  publisher.  Whitman  sells 
thetn  from  time  to  tinie,  either  through  McKay  or  direct  from 
the  box  in  his  room  to  the  customer.  Orders  come  from  the 
most  distant  points,  in  Europe  antl  America,  in  .Australia  and 
.\sia.  Usually,  in  sending  ofT  a  book,  he  writes  to  ask  the  pur- 
chaser to  acknowledge  its  arrival 

He  enjoys  tin  idea  that  a  writer  might  (in  his  case  very  often 
iloes")  deal  direct  with  his  public.  He  is  generous  with  his 
frieu<ls.  The  (piantity  of  books  conferred  upon  ihcui  without 
calculation,  the  ipiestion  of  innnediatc  return  never  argueil,  would 
seem  preposterous,  but  for  tlie  fact  that  these  friends  have  practi- 
cally and  abstractly  espoused  his  work  through  riacrifices  for  which 
no  mere  volume  could  compensate,  and  that  Whitman  knows 
and  frequently  si)eaks  of  it  in  that  light.  You  cannot  convince 
hin\  that  the  debt  is  all  on  one  side,  or  that  in  any  strict  sense 
there  is  a  debt  owing  him  to  them  or  them  to  him.  "  It  is  all 
one  in  the  end — elTort,  vi<  tory,  immortality,  is  yours  as  it  is 
mine.  .  .  .  Who  will  ask  to  have  merits  counted  when  the 
day  is  done?  "  And  so  he  offers  his  simple  'vidences  of  remetii- 
brauce,  respect,  sympathy,  l<»vc.  Every  inscription  in  every  book 
has  its  own  color,  shading  this  way  and  that  from  demonstrations 


WALT   W  Hint  AX  AT  DATE. 


»25 


of  great  warmth  of  attachment  to  the  casual  love  offered  the 
stranger.  Hooks  and  portraits  arc  sent  in  minibcrs  for  his  auto- 
graph, A  copy  of  the  first  edition  of  "Leaves  of  Grass" 
recently  came  all  the  way  from  Glasgov/.  He  signed  it  without 
question.  Yet  subsequently  he  remarked:  "I  am  not  sure  but 
all  this  is  overdone,  .  .  .  and  it  is  (pieer,  anyway,  to 
face  the  new  situation.  Once  they  would  not  have  the  book  on 
any  terms.  Now  they  would  not  surrender  it  on  any  terms.  It 
almost  seems  as  if  we  had  won  our  battle."  He  is  certainly  as 
generous  as  he  ought  to  be  in  complying  with  these  requests. 

Whitman  loves  children,  though  at  first  contact  they  seem  in 
these  later  days  to  shrink  from  him.  John  Burroughs  recites 
one  memorable  instance  in  which  Whitman  inspired  confidence 
from  the  beginning,  and  which  would  seem  to  show  that  whiit  I 
note  may  not  always  have  been  true.  He  can  be  i)ained  at 
the  repulse  of  a  child.  "  Hut  I  always  win  them  before  we 
are  through."  Tlie  great  figure  and  long,  shaggy  beard  are 
formidable  obstacles  to  immediate  intimacy.  Hut  his  voice, 
gestures  and  touch  are  (|uick  to  reassure;  and  once  children 
know  him,  lliey  never  fear  again.  He  will  reach  for  them  as 
they  pass  him  in  the  street,  will  place  them  on  his  knees  when 
they  come  to  see  him,  will  question  them  as  gently  as  a  mother 
— and  when  they  go  will  give  them  banana  or  apple  or  flower  or 
any  little  token  which  the  moment  yields  to  his  hand.  1  recall 
the  incident  of  a  visit  i);iid  him  by  Clifford  with  his  little  girl, 
who  much  feared  the  formidable  man  at  the  start,  but  will  tell 
to-day  of  the  appK  which  "  dear  old  Walt,"  as  she  always  called 
and  calls  him,  drc^'  from  his  po(  ket  and  sent  her  away  chewing 
Upon.  This  simi)lc  response  to  the  life  of  children  characterizes 
his  contact  with  all  occasions  and  personalities.  Age,  fame, 
wealth,  poverty,  do  not  seem  to  affect  his  demeanor.  He  is 
king  in  the  presence  of  kings,  mechanic  with  mechanics — he  is 
always  himself,  acconnnodating  his  life  to  the  shifting  hues  of 
circumstance.  He  absorbs  all  situations  ;  he  surrenders  to  none. 
The  same  dress  that  carries  him  to  the  shop,  fits  him  for  the  re- 
ception. *  4 

He  dots  not  like  to  be  questioned,  yet  is  himself  nnich  given 


126 


JN  RE   WALT  WHITMAN. 


to  questioning  others.  He  desires  the  vivid  event  and  terminol- 
ogy of  industrial  enterprise,  the  minutiae  of  banks,  the  inside 
facts  of  great  enterprises — those  intimate,  significant  minor 
streams  which  vivify  and  explain  the  hour.  He  likes  to  talk  to 
theatrical  men,  to  reporters,  to  editors.  He  is  interested  in  in- 
vention, discovery,  new  pictures,  the  development  of  what  he 
calls  the  democratic  arts.  I  have  never  seen  him  embarrassed. 
He  is  the  only  person  I  know  of  whom  I  can  say  this.  I  have 
never  seen  him  put  on  a  show  of  knowledge  or  seem  ashamed  to 
confess  an  ignorance.  Obvious  facts  will  prove  somehow  to 
have  escaped  him,  and  he  will  inquire  after  them  without  the 
least  sign  or  notion  of  shame.  His  phraseology  is  never  com- 
l^lex,  nor  commonly  as  the  schools  go.  He  daringly  imputes  new 
meanings  to  words,  calmly  adopts  new  words,  serenely  illustrates 
by  peculiar  combinations.  He  is  justifiably  proud  of  his  "  Pres- 
identiad "  and  thinks  it  belongs  in  th^  Century  dictionary. 
Will  it  be  accounted  to  the  honor  of  this  noble  work  that 
among  other  virtues  it  had  not  the  courage  and  penetration  to 
consult  or  quote  him  with  any  deference,  if  at  all?  He 
is  quick  to  concede  the  use  of  slang,  apprehending  what  of  value 
it  contributes  to  the  fund  of  expression.  He  has  collected  data 
for  years,  industriously  and  faithfully,  which  furnishes  the  ground- 
work of  his  essay  appearing  in  "November  Boughs."  Similar 
material  he  duly  keeps  together,  in  such  shape  as  to  be  ready  for 
use.  If  he  chances  to  be  looking  up  a  special  subject,  he  will 
cut  out  a  couple  of  pasteboard  covers,  label  them,  and  thence- 
forward tie  between  the  cards  all  the  MS.  notes  he  makes  and  all 
the  printed  matter  he  collects  which  bear  upon  the  problem. 

Even  casual  visitors  perceive  that  Whitman's  simplest  talk  is- 
sues from  a  generous  background.  He  has  his  reserves.  Vulgar 
familiarity  would  never  be  essayed  with  him.  Literary  foppish- 
ness is  never  welcome.  Men  or  women  who  go  to  interest  him 
in  special  causes,  philrnthropies,  to  debate  with  him,  to  persuade 
him  to  read  their  books  or  listen  to  their  theories,  find  him  cold 
and  untalkative.  People  who  take  advantage  and  would  stay 
too  long  or  vociferate  too  much,  discover  by  and  by  that  he  has 
retired  within  himself  and  can  hardly  be  drawn  to  say  a  word. 


WALT  WHITMAN  AT  DATE. 


127 


Those  who  have  tact  accept  the  lesson ;  ethers  wonder  or  are 
angry.  Reporters  will  ask,  "What  are  your  politics?"  and  he 
will  reply,  "  I  should  be  glad  to  have  you  tell  me;  "  and  will 
retort  in  kind  to  questions  that  touch  his  religion.  I  have  been 
frequently  asked  if  Whitman  in  his  recent  affliction  makes  any 
show  of  relenting  from  his  radical  notions  ;  and  when  I  say  that 
his  affirmations  are  as  strong  and  serene  as  ever,  some  go  away 
disappointed  and  some  rejoicing.  He  does  not  like  controversy,  , 
yet  will  on  occasion  fling  out  the  most  unmistakable  rebuttals. 
His  intentness  as  listener  will  at  times  persuade  an  over-eager  ap- 
plicant that  his  application  is  endorsed.  He  has  decided  impres- 
sions of  things,  rather  than  "  views,"  and  never  hides  them.  His 
hospitality  to  the  thought  of  others  is  warm.  He  will  listen  pa- 
tiently to  an  opposing  opinion,  and  be  quite  likely  to  admit  that 
"there  is  much  to  be  said  for  it," — at  the  same  time  con- 
ditioning his  concession,  as  if  to  protect  his  private  integrity : 
"But  back  of  that  is  another  and  another  fact,  and  to  them  I 
appeal."  He  shows  deference  to  knowledge  and  theory  for 
what  their  integrity  and  weight  intrinsically  suggest  rather  than 
because  they  come  well  introduced.  Hence  his  attention  is  re- 
spectful to  prophet  and  to  laborer,  to  word  of  authority  or  the 
lower  note  of  apology,  to  those  who  rule  and  those  who  are 
ruled — in  short,  to  life,  to  truth,  simply,  in  and  for  itself. 

He  likes  free  people,  incidents  fresh  from  man's  instincts, 
principles  that  leave  man  unhampered,  governments  and  systems 
thai  put  on  no  shackles.  He  is  an  ultra  free-trader.  His  way 
of  stating  himself  is,  that  the  common  classes  of  all  civilized 
countries  are  essentially  one  in  their  prosperity  and  means  of 
development,  and  that  inter-trade,  mails,  travel,  commerce, 
should  be  free,  and  that  America  especially,  standing  for  all  the 
demands  of  freedom,  should  legislate  and  act  accordingly.  He 
likes  William  Legget's  formula,  that  "the  world  is  governed 
too  much."  He  insists  that  noblesse  oblige  is  not  only  a  good 
motto  for  superior  individuals,  but  for  nations,  and,  above  all, 
for  America. 

He  condemns  the  anti-Chinese  law,  dislikes  restrictions  of 
whatever  character  put  upon  the  masses,  and  is  positive  as  to  the 


\ 


ia8 


JN  RK  WALT   WHITMAy. 


evils  which  result  from  labor  contracts  made  abroad.  He  faces 
every  threat  to  our  civilization — every  quoted  danger — yet  pre- 
sents an  unmoved  faith.  He  thinks  our  age  and  the  United 
States  full  of  bad  elements,  but  full  of  good,  too,  affording  ampler 
eligibilities  ("  eligibility  "  being  one  of  his  special  words)  to  the 
good  and  for  the  lower  classes  than  have  been  heretofore  known. 
"  Our  ship,"  he  says  to  me,  "  is  the  best  built  possible,  and  has 
all  the  charts  of  seas,  and  is  the  best  manned  that  can  be.  Are 
we  to  go  through  some  bad  weather?  No  doubt.  But  we'll  get 
through.  It  will  have  to  be  pretty  tough  to  be  worse  than  the 
storms  behind  us;  and  here  we  are,  better  than  ever." 

He  condemns  the  restrictive  tendencies  and  low  standards  of 
tlic  churches.  Tiie  moralism  of  the  Sunday  school,  he  says,  has 
become  trite  and  bloodless.  The  splendid  outbursts  of  human 
l)assion — the  master  impulses  of  civilization — find  authority  and 
utterance  elsewhere.  When  I  said  the  other  day,  "Institutions 
curb  and  betray — freedom  releases  and  saves,"  he  exclaimed, 
"  That  will  remain  true  as  it  has  been  true.  '  Leaves  of  Grass' 
stands  off  with  the  lesson  of  freedom,  the  individual." 

The  spontaneity  he  wouiu  exact  of  society  at  large  he  exem- 
plifies in  himself.  All  his  habics  are  informal.  One  Sunday 
evening,  at  Harned's  table,  when  a  inusually  large  group  of  us 
were  gathered,  I  happened  to  make  some  allusion  to  Fitz  Greene 
Hallcck.  This  attracted  Whitman,  who  said  he  had  known  and 
liked  Halleck,  and  that  more  than  once  they  had  sat  together 
over  their  wine.  Some  impulse  led  from  this  to  his  vigor-'us 
quotation  of  the  opening  lines  of  "  Marco  Bozzaris."  His  fork 
was  Iialf-raised  to  his  mouth  ;  a  bit  of  bread  and  meat  were  nicely 
balancccl  on  the  fork  ;  and  now,  as  the  first  lines  seemed  to  lake 
down  all  barriers,  he  recited  the  whole  i)oem,  with  infinite  fire, 
lo  the  joy  of  us  all.  When  he  was  done  the  fork  and  its  b'rden 
completed  their  voyage.  I  have  heard  him  recite,  under  similar 
circumstances,  the  one  poem  from  Murgerof  which  he  is  so  fond. 
Sitting  o]iposite  a  picture  of  Lincoln,  lie  would  often  raise  his 
glass,  "  Here  is  to  you,"  once  or  twice  on  special  days  inviting 
the  whole  table  to  pay  this  reverence.  He  so  toasted  once  when 
Thomas  H.  Dudley,  Felix  Adler,  John  H.  Clifford,  and  S.  Burns 


W( 
on 
Wl 
too 


WALT   WnintAN  AT  DATE. 


139 


Weston  were  present.  Dudley  and  Whilman  got  into  a  debate 
on  the  tariff,  Adler  sharing  in  Whitman's  support.  At  the  table, 
Whitnuin  said :  "  Our  talk  should  have  been  reported — it  was 
too  good  to  bo  wholly  lost.  .  .  .  And  as  for  you,  Dudley, — I  am 
sure  I  have  never  heard  your  side  so  plausibly  ])ut  before."  He 
had  a  way  of  spending  at  least  a  part  of  his  Sundays  with  the 
Harneds — (Mr.  Harned  married  Miss  Traubel,  my  sister) — if  not 
a|)pearing  for  dinner,  coming  in  the  wind-up  of  a  drive  in  the 
afternoon,  to  tea.  Many  men,  distinguished  and  obscure,  met 
him  on  these  visits.  He  was  a  guest  thus  for  some  years,  till  the 
calamity  in  1888 — and  Harned's  is  the  only  strange  house  at 
which  a  few  exceptional  meals  have  since  been  taken.  I  remem- 
ber a  Christmas  dinner  which  Ernest  Rhys,  one  of  Whitman's 
London  admirers,  shared.  Whitman's  appetite  was  invariably 
good;  but  his  eating  and  drinking  were  alike  temperate.  '•  Say 
that  I  have  an  incidental  fondness  for  champagne,"  he  advises  me. 
He  always  talked  easily  at  Harned's,  whether  in  the  parlor  or  at 
meals.     Tlie  children  discovered  in  him  a  natural  companion. 

In  his  aversion  to  drugs  and  regimen,  Whitman  is  as  |>ositive 
to-day  as  in  days  of  best  health.  He  will  concede  that  he  loses 
here  and  there  from  his  adherence  to  an  old  principle — "  or  is  it 
a  prejudice  ?  " — but  will  contend  that  he  has  more  than  compen- 
sating gains.  He  has  never  used  tobacco  in  any  form,  is  only  a 
moderate  partaker  of  good  wines  and  whiskies,  and  is  studiedly 
abstemious  with  coffee  and  tea.  His  daily  bathing,  his  habitual 
rubbing,  his  careful  regard  for  the  remote  previsions  of  the  per- 
son, are  vital.  No  professional  prescription  could  in  these  things 
do  for  him  what  his  constant  watchfulness  and  calm  effect. 

He  is  famous  for  his  skilful  ])reparation  of  toddies.  War 
memories,  old  instincts  preserved,  his  conviction  of  its  medic- 
inal efficacy,  maintain  the  drink  in  his  respect.  With  un- 
wearied hand  he  dispenses  the  potion  among  his  sick  neighbors. 
One  night  he  offered  the  mixture  to  Harrison  Morris — taking  the 
water  from  the  stove,  the  whiskey  from  a  bottle,  using  a  big 
mug  and  a  spoon,  out  of  the  last  tasting  the  consistency  of  the 
liquor  from  time  to  time.  Morris  had  not  expected  a  stiff  drink. 
With  interesting  humor,  Whitman,  who  saw  his  wry  face,  smiled 
9 


i    : 


I 


ill 


tl« 


IN  Rn:  WAi.r  \vnirMA?r. 


Atiil  ;isk«'(l :  "  Wli.ii  is  it  ?  Docs  it  need  iimre  whiskey?  "  Hill 
his  tnsic  in  foodHtiilTs  is  oxni  t  niul  his  knowhMlf{0  of  what  his 
rdiulitiiiM  iiiip(ts(>s  pciCi'tt.  hf.  Hiirkc  thinks  he-  is  not  on  |mr- 
tinil.M  pitinis  snniricnllv  ( fiirriil  ms  Io  liisijirl,  linl  luhnilft  th;U  on 
the  \vl\oh'  lie  rxetrisrs  woiKh'lhii  hi'lgiii(M\t. 

It  was  ll»r  nifjht  of  Witshinnfon's  itiilhilnv.  1HM7.  IliiU  Whit- 
\\\,\\\  npppnicti  hefoie  the  lltintentponny  I'hib,  in  I'hiladclphiit. 
I  I  onvfveil  the  invilalion  to  him  weeks  picvionv,  \\\n\  I  remem- 
ber his  I Dnsent  :is  he  s;it  i)y  Ihe  winlei  Hie  in  liis  pnihir.  We 
tried  Io  net  him  to  write  some  few  lirief  notes  or  passM^es  whirh 
he  mijiht  rend  rtiid  then  lot  go  (ii  preiioiis  historir  inamisc  ript) 
into  the  nrrhives  of  the  Clnh  ;  l»iit  whih'  lie  never  refused  onr 
mifigrslion,  and  even  spoke  of  it  as  "a  ^t^od  idea,"  he  never  ac- 
quiesced, and  in  tite  end  no  word  was  written  or  obtained. 

Professor  Hrinton  rmne  over  to  see  me  one  evening,  mid  we 
went  down  to  Whitman's  together.  Me  liappened  to  he  in  the 
kitchen  talking  to  Mrs  Davis,  and  there  received  ns,  neither 
apologizing  nor  ofTering  to  lake  ns  elsewhere.  Some  <  hanre 
question  in  the  course  of  our  talk  caused  his  digressiiui  to  (treek 
art  and  poetry  ;  and  his  ( otifident  rotninent  flowed  wilhotit  stint, 
and  in  tones  jnire  as  Ihe  nature  he  described.  I  walked  to 
the  ferrv  with  Hrinton,  who  said  as  he  was  leaving  ine  :  "That 
was  a  great  talk.  Wliy  shouldn't  he  go  over  just  such  ground  for 
the  Club?  It  is  the  very  thing  we  want."  Next  day  I  repeated 
this  Io  Whitman,  who  .asked  in  wonder:  "What  did  1  talk 
about?     I  don't  'emember  a  wt)rd  of  it." 

The  night  of  Ihe  meeting  I  had  a  carriage  ready  and  matle 
the  trip  over  with  him.  C'ohl  as  it  was,  he  threw  every  window 
open.  He  saluted  nil  the  ferrymen,  had  quite  n  talk  with  one 
of  the  «leck  hands,  was  soon  on  easy  terms  with  our  driver.  The 
stars  were  so  clear,  the  air  so  racy,  he  said  at  one  moment :  "  It 
is  like  a  new  graiM  of  health  and  freedom."  When  we  reached 
(tirard  street  (the  meeting  was  in  the  New  Century  Club  rooms) 
half  a  dozen  cabmen  who  stood  about  offered  to  help  him.  He  was 
readily  got  up-stnirs,  into  the  already  crowded  and  not  caparions 
room.  We  took  I'  ovetco.it  and  h.it.  On  first  entering,  he 
sat  among  the  irrcj(u!.^r  clusters  of  tncnd)crs  and  their  friends. 


WAl/r   win  I'M  \S   AT  h\TE. 


•J» 


?"      WW 
wliiU   lii« 
I  on  par- 
ts tliiU  on 

vM  Wliil- 
latli'lliliiit. 
I  reineiu- 
-lor.     We 

m'H  wliit  li 

uniim  ript ) 
fiispti  our 
ticver  ac- 

lU'll. 

(,  ami  we 
l)p  in  tlio 
IS,  neither 
le  cliiince 
1  to  Oreek 
l\oiit  stint, 
walked  to 
e:  "  riiat 
ground  for 
I  repealed 
id    I   talk 

and  tiinde 

V  wintlow 

with  one 

ver.    The 

ent:    "  It 

ic  reached 
lb  rooms) 

n.  He  was 
raparions 
tering,  he 
r  friends. 


There  was  a  platforin  raised  nliont  a  foot  at  one  end  of  the  room. 
Would  lie  !ake  that?  Me  responded,  "I  am  in  your  hands 
Mow,"  a(ldin^,  "liiil,  first,  can't  wej^et  more  nir  Into  this  room?  " 
lie  was  helped  to  the  platform.  The  s( cue  was  iiiii(|iic  and  im- 
pressive. The  rontiast  of  his  simple,  massive  exterior  hisvoiie, 
flan,  and  smile — willi  the  literary,  intellet  liial,  often  ho»  ial 
pomp  of  the  group  about  him,  was  great.  Some  of  tis  sat  along 
the  edge  of  the  platform  at  his  feet,  others  stood  behind  him. 
He  was  prai  til  ally  siirroimded.  Miit  whatever  the  (diilrast,  the 
doubt,  the  critical  feeling,  his  own  bearing  shamed  all  aniago* 
nislic  nssertion.  His  freedcmi  and  spontaneity  were,  in  fart, 
nliiKist  exasperating.  He  would  not,  for  instance,  talk  of  poetry, 
of  philosophy,  of  firl,  or  of  anylhing  wlii<  h  would  in.ingnrale  (on- 
troversy,  .Siibtle  iii(|niries  were  advam  ed  and  passed.  He  took 
fiome  printed  sheets  from  his  breast -pot  ket,  reading  "The  Mys- 
tic 'rrmnpeter "  and  "A  Voice  from  the  Sea,"  repeated  Miirger's 
"  Midnight  Visitor,"  and  answered  one  or  two  of  the  more  in- 
nocent i|nestions  that  were  put.  One  response,  dealing  with 
the  idea  of  protediirc  and  system — "  Method  does  not  trouble 
me,  my  own  method  or  that  of  others,  provided  I  or  they  'get 
there'" — excited  much  amusement.  His  reading  was  solemn 
and  im|)iessive.  There  was  some  further  program,  in  whic  h  he 
apparently  look  little  interest.  He  c  hose  his  own  lime  tct  whis- 
per to  me  his  desire  to  go.  On  the  way  clown-stairs  he  took  a 
flip  or  more  of  tea  or  <  ciffee.  He  was  led  out  as  he  had  been  led 
in.  On  the  step  he  turned  to  me — f  had  one  arm --and  made 
some  remark  about  the  glory  of  the  stars  and  how  good  it  was 
to  be  free  with  them  again.  The  drivers  here  all  circled  him 
again,  offering  congratnlation.s  and  help. 

The  Contemporary  C'lub  has  8inc:e  given  him  a  second  re- 
ception— April  15th,  i«(;o.  This  time  he  read  his  Lincoln  ad- 
dress. He  volunteered  it,  through  me,  casually,  one  night. 
He  had  missed  iH8c;  because  the  early  months  of  that  year  were 
full  of  doubt  and  disaster.  Hut  now  he  felt  able  to  venture  and 
inspired  to  speak.  He  was  prompted  by  what  he  described  as  a 
sentiment  of  religious  duty.  'I'here  was  that  in  his  love  for 
Lincoln  wliic  h  made  this  sad  task  welcome.     iSut  in  the  mean, 


% 


m 


ija 


/iV  UK   WAIT   WHITMAN. 


\\ 


time  Ijc  sufTt'icil  it  return  of  the  Krippp,  nnd  for  n  ffw  (lny«  It 
rpoiiumI  tliat  it  woiilil  be  iinpoRsiliU'  for  liiin  to  get  out.  Our 
CIiiI)  ( omiiiitloc  wcrr  dcrply  concerned.  Wliitman  himnclf 
peiionsly  tloiihled  the  issue.  He  wrote  to  Dr.  Hinke  almost 
positively  predi(ling  a  snrreniler.  Yet  lie  did  not  incline  to  any 
|)reniatnrc  negative.  'I'lii*  ftfteenlli  was  a  'Tuesday.  I  went  to 
liun  cpiestioningly  on  the  'rinirsday  and  l''riday  that  preceded, 
Imlh  times  fmdiM^  him  in  lu-d.  Personally,  I  rather  urged  de- 
nial. I  meant  that  he  should  assume  nil  risks.  Would  it  not 
be  as  well  to  realize  the  impossible?  Hut  no  !  (Nnild  the  cards 
be  heUl  tmtil  Simday  ?  Let  them  be  held,  then  :  he  wotdd  hope 
to  the  last.  'This  was  an  extra  Club  meeting:  the  regidar  meet- 
ing had  been  the  'I'uesday  just  passed.  Saturday  came  ;  he  was 
little,  if  any,  better.  Hnt  he  still  persisted.  I  had  promised 
the  President  and  Se<retary  that  I  would  comnninicate  with  them 
definitely  Sunday  forenoon.  I  reminded  Whitman  of  this.  He 
held  t)Ul  one  last  ray  of  hope  :  "  Let  it  go  still  ;  come  down  in  the 
niorning."  When  I  traversed  the  way  again  in  the  morning  he 
was  sidl  in  bod.  iUit  he  looked  at  me  with  his  assuring  smile. 
He  said  to  me  a  number  of  times:  "I  hate  to  give  this  up — 
hate  to  be  baulked  ;  none  of  n>y  friends,  not  you,  not  Dr.  Hucke, 
know  the  full  measure  of  my  stubbornness."  Hut  the  Tuesday 
night  was  in  every  respect  auspicious,  and  four  of  us  went  over 
in  the  carriage  together.  Whitman  afterward  described  this 
voyage  in  an  unsigned  note  to  the  Hoston  Tfitnactil^t.  He 
laughingly  described  it  to  me  as  having  all  the  features  of  a  vio- 
lent rebellion  against  a  sick-bed.  'I'hc  ride  was  very  much  a.s 
the  previous  one  had  been.  Hut  the  exertion  of  ascending  a 
long  flight  of  stairs,  which  he  insisted  ujmn,  nearly  overcame 
him.  He  was  led  to  the  platform,  read  his  new  introductory 
words,  and  got  along  without  great  difficulty.  His  voice  was 
melodious,  almost  as  strong  as  years  before.  He  would  not  be 
introduced,  saying  to  the  President  or  to  some  others  that  he 
desired  no  preliminaries.  His  manner  was  indefinably  easy. 
He  wore  his  glasses,  often  gesticulated  appropriately,  now  and 
then  left  his  manuscript  to  add  a  sentence,  or  to  look  across 
the  room,  or  to  rei)eat  some  significant  turn  of  phrase  or  thought. 


W 


^ 


WAI/f    Wit  I  I'M  AS  AT  hATK. 


'31 


There  were  imnfinKrn  in  tlic  rcciml  (»f  wliirh  he  threw  his  j(rent 
body  back  in  hiH  ( liair,  Hpokr  with  ^rcat  vrhcinciKT,  riii<)inK 
head  nnd  tunc  and  eye  in  pcrfcf  I  a(<(»rd.  He  |tali(Mitly  rfriuained 
tiiitii  l>i.  FiirncsH  had  fiiiishcd  his  remarket,  and  then  retired  an 
(inosteiitalioiiHly  as  lie  had  < oine.  lie  said  iaii^hin^dy  the  next 
day,  " 'i'lie  vi(  tnry  was  lliat  I  did  not  '  (hnik  '  altogether."  The 
victory  was,  likewise,  that  he  had  again  borne  lestiinoiiy  to  the 
one  of  two  (»r  three  men,  or  the  (»ne  single  man,  in  America 
with  whom  he  rcf  o^;iii/,cd  a  « onsannninity  of  nature. 

'I'hongli  tliese  iletails  of  special  events  may  seem  tiresome. 
rcKarded  simply  in  and  for  themselves,  they  serve  important 
ends  if  the  invariable  demov .  icy  of  Whilman's  manner,  nnoer 
whatever  pressure  of  literary  or  so(  iai  display,  is  to  be  tmderslood. 
And  while  upon  this  topic  I  might  add  that  he  is  the  oidy  honor- 
ary mcnd)er  of  the  Contemporary  (!lnb. 

t  have  been  asked  whether  Whitman  does  not  lack  liumor, 
whether  his  manners  arc  not  nn(()iith,  and  kindred  things,  of 
which  the  absurdity  is  apparent  to  any  one  who  meets  him  fat  e 
to  face.  Kspe(  iaily  am  I  aske<l  whether  he  latighs,  f)r  knows  a 
joke  when  he  reads  or  sees  it,  or  appreciates  the  flash  of  wit  and 
tlic  passage  of  si  -ry.  It  iias  been  so  often  said  of  his  book  that 
it  fails  in  hnmor,  that  the  world  of  readers  suppose  Whitman 
nniKt  be  a  gruesome  com|).".nion.  Hut  his  laughter  is  like  his  grief 
— it  is  a  deep  :;en.,  travelled  by  ships  of  mighty  draft.  Whit- 
man's composnr"  is  usually  |)erfect.  Dr.  Hucke  attributes  his 
recovery  from  his  last  severe  sickness,  such  as  it  has  been,  to 
his  moral  strength  and  cahnness — to  the  fat  t  that  in  seasons  of 
crises  he  has  never  been  mastered  by,  but  has  always  mastered, 
all  depressing  cniotions.  I  have  known  incidents  which  wotdd 
have  angered  or  aroused  the  laughter  of  any  other  man,  to  pass 
by  him  unnoticed. 

An  actor  rang  the  bell  one  afternoon  while  wc  talked  together, 
sent  up  his  card,  and  was  given  audience.  He  begged  several 
autographs  for  Steele  Mackaye  and  some  others,  which  were 
given  him.  Whitman  explained  that  he  had  always  kept  a  warm 
heart  for  stage-players,  and  that  the  English  actors  especially  had 
in  various  ways  responded  with  a  noble  friendship.  The  young  fel- 


i^*! 


*I4 


ttf  HK   WAtf   tttflrtHH. 


i  I 


liMv  Hrt^  tll"ilmltn|  lu'  \\\\n  f'i)!»»|»rttUMii  Why  wn-^  Attiprlin  iint  i»H. 
litlHiJ  li>  llip^f  <*llp««HMt-  hiMUifi  P  It  H  rprfrtlft  flili  prtiirtl  tlirfiiljjil 
f<l'»  nilinl  Mr  !uvl<«iinllv  xMiitrhfil  liN  lirtitl,  iiprvttii^lv  tnnv»'<l 
tilir*ii»  il\f  i(((int,  fiiiil  ftrlnlint'il  rtl  l;i*t,  fiOfi  nil  fvlflnit  iriin  It  n»r 
«  Diir  limlvf  n-^mHttntr^  "Alt  I  yr"?  I  Mi.  WltUiitnn,  I  ktmwr  5 
tlipv  /nfv  yri«i!  \m  wp-  wn:  Ahimif  ymt  I  "  I  frit  tmnhlrtl  »m  «up- 
|ur«  tny  <>w»i  Imiijlupi,  Itiit  tln-tp  wvm  Wliiltiiufi,  n  kln^  mi  liii 

HlliMtP.  Ilitf  :1  qlllilf  vl«(iMr'  Ami  nlwil  lite  VMIIMjj  ln;tll  writf  (til 
fM  irhlf  lll!lt   lit'  lt:l(l  rttttf  flitlll  1  (Ml;llll   Nctt   Vnlk  !1(  liiN  tM  nITt't 

Wliintiiin  rt  Itctu'dt.  Wliiiiiiriii  tfplicil  with  ilu'  snine  frtlin  ititi 
thitiiph  nnvv  Willi  :iii  initprt'<p  t'l  ri'cliiin. 

I  llrtVP  MPVPt  «PPI1  III"*  t  nmpfwillp  iipqpt  liUt  »MUP,  rttui  tll;(t  Wlti 
Mttrli't  t><ll!in|iliu;nv  1  ll  1  lllll')!!!!!!  cq  ullii  ll  Hit  t  l^lllcMiiq  iiinii  Wnltid 
PStrnit;Uiv       HiM  p:l<<qiiin,  wllrli    it    I'xplitili-q,  ||;I';    :(    I  ,f':M  llkf    iii 

tpn'«iiv.  Up  uppiiH  pipirtllv  fVnilk  in  wflitiitip  fit  pMil««p  nt  »mi- 
»li'iMiirtil-tn  Pfi^rtiii  I  f»im<  (11  Itliii  with  ilip  dt'liltptnlp  piiipime 
kw  tlptvilp,  PllhfM  rtbntil  liU  wiiik  nt  tlipil'*  lie  ^ltlt^vq  lio  tlcfrf- 
fllrr  ti>  oili  ll  in  intPlllinli,  no  lluUtrf  III  «  liniti  Mill  uttltlly  rlllll 
tlt^Mf    Wrlmillr,  llililii    rill    pliipt'l    iiinilili(MI'<,    lirvPl     r;lll«(.       He 

U'ill  t;i»t*)y  ilchiitc  liii  M«ii  wmk  pvph  Willi  liii  iiillm :ii<n  Hut  lip  In 
ttlw-iv  ilinpit-jiil  »(t  ii'«'<p»-t  lii"*  liiilif  li>  ipic^iiitii.  AHpi-  Iip  piili- 
li";ln"<  rt  t»ip<r.  Ill'  will  iVik  •  "'  h  il  rlcnt  qniliitu?"  tif.  "  h  il  up 
\\y  si.^mlrtvtl  ? "  iM-  iiiiiixliirc  sniMf  Miniiln  itupiliv  wlilcli  ilops 
tiot  toinmit  Mm,  rtiiil  ypt  pliiits  tin-  nmik  jtnlgiiient  of  the  pet-- 
soil  rtilillr'«<(r^l. 

I  know  lli.il  \\\t\\\\'  j^roptp  (OlilP,  ffplpln*!  Ijpyolltl  flip  tlt11>»  lit! 
(rvU  lie  iMiultl  to  ^ivp  llirlil.  !Hi'  Willi  liiolc  ot  li'sq  ilmiqiMH 
t-clmrtVil,  ;iiitl  fio  tlirit  wnvs  ;iiipiy  fli;il  lir  l'!iil?»  in  roiiVfiqiHioiinl 
|>0\VP1-<<,  Of  \<^  «V<»P>VP(I,  Of  i«  rol«l.  Of  Ilr1<i  Hot  flip  RPllijllllv  I  lililPPcl 
fof  him.  'I'hp  vi<!iiof  i;iip1v  look-^  in  himnolr  fof  nil  ptplnnnlion 
of  ihpsp  rt)^p;iiriU  tli^i  ipprtiiripq.  fiinl  ypt  it  i«t  onlv  iIiih  llijif  Iip 
WiMiltl  f^nil  thp  ■«iippo<5pi|  iiuiin^initv  inmlp  phiin, 

Whifnirtii  toll!  flip  »h:ii  lu-  hml  hppn  r;iiniliitt  ninl  wdl  ii<trtl  in 
thp  V.ivioii"?  ilpprtftinpliH  of  1  Npw  Voik  ihlilv  prtprf.  ;tiul  ihrtt  ottp 
or  ihr  nu'n  .11  onp  finip  ilnfiiipj  his  illiipss  t-rtinr  on  losee  hitii,  to 
^Vitv  l>i<  k  .mthpntir  wokI  rt^  fo  hi^  loinlilion.  "  nivp  tliPin  sill 
t\\\  lipst  irsperts  ami  hn-e."  s;iiil  ho.  on  flip  pmis'<rtfy's  ilppiuliife. 


WALT  nint^AN  at  hAtit. 


t.« 


"1>ll  tltrm  f  Mill  lif.M  Mir  fnrf,  nHfr  n  fioft.  1>ll  Mirm  my 
ii|iltl»<i  t\tt'  B'tntl  ;  I  rnf,  (Ifiiik,  ^^«limll(1^^,  n)ff\t,  nrifl  fllnf^f  |irrtfjf 
wril.  I  f»'tii''tiilf»  fvrty  fitif  (if  tli'-tii  (ifr(»'(tlv,  find  wmiM  like 
tf»  III*  witli  llifiii  flili  niMtiir'nr"  I  liiv  <(iffi''il  tridiiy  nii«  li  ifif<». 
«rtg»"(  to  pfliitrff,  mrrliniiii  <(,  wrifff*,  nird  In  nil  nn  n\mi'uiiin, 
"'IVll  fliriri  file  flfpti  Bff  fiMf  fill  (Hi»,  (liMiijjIi  tlify  fjiirn  wifli  icnn 
vrlinnfure  .  .  nrirl  tfll  tliMn  Hinf  fiiy  l(»vp  hrildi  nfi  wltliniif 
q»iiit.  filtftd'thftif,  flrnlfil  " 

lie  nlwrtvi  lin<«  n  gufid  wukI  mikI  wifoirif  fur  Sfiiiflifrfiprd, 
Up  lint  llvr«|  ftmrli  In  fh«?  Sfiiifli,  fr«itii  Vifnifiln  fo  Icnnn,  niu\ 
tiiiKlit  1(1  wnv  I"*  hikfii  (nful  •tumfflfftfn  litt<i  lifi-ti  fnkph)  for  n 
Cmulinn  nr  Alnlriitui  |il;Mi»ff  If"  ilcfilntfi  miK  li  nf  flif  ftirtffit 
vnl^rtr  '('•iliimfil  iiiiiinnMitv.  Id  liim  thorp  fM-tni  n  iifw  rtn  en- 
lend  ii|inli  in  wlii(  li  Wf  ftinv  roMinimdv  j"iii  linnfli,  nny  Stntp 
Willi  fliiv  iitliPf.  Up  llkps  vlsjfori  wlm  \itU\fi  l.iiijjlifpr  nnd  joy, 
tlirer  niid  fi<ftu\  imtiirp,  tlilnklfiK  tlip  Iniff-r  f|iinlity  tlip  lip^t,  the 
liiimt  |i|(iIiiIsIm^,  the  Mi'iHt  itnlifiiinl,  of  nil  lint  diMtiiifjiii'^li  mir 
dfiiKtf nit  V  Me  N  iH'vcr  n  iiuin  tn  m-f  tlir  star  of  nfintlipr  irinfi''« 
iiidividiinlily.  All  lie  nsks  in  tlwit  the  utiicr  liriiig  with  hirn  \m 
fjf'miliip  iplf. 

No  nuiii  morp  d'-llghtq  In  rpvrlntitttiq  (if  rpvnlf  npnlnnt  rigid 
rilirt,  ill  qpniitfiiH'ilv  Mild  iiidividMiilitv.  KvcM  in  Fstr.'ifijjcrt  he 
drlcf  Is  all  prclcnsc,  penetrates  nil  'li^Jirnise.  "  We  want  men  - 
titif  plipppts,  pcliiiPH.*'  Wliittiinn.  '  I  have  said,  hnqn  way  of  la|«- 
ing  when  n  stranger  heeonies  olilrnsive.  lie  will  retire  within 
himselr,  (lime  the  dour,  emit  not  a  word  ejo  '-pt  in  iiid'Tinitp  nwrno- 
Hvll  diles.  If  the  visitor  have  (at  t,  he  will  penetrate  the  (over, 
snv  his  good  day  niiil  gft.  Whilinan  will  give  his  own  farewell  : 
if  he  is  wenry,  will  exietid  his  hnnd,  make  a  natural  trnnsition, 
saving,  perhaps,  "  Well,  good  liy  I  I  am  glad  you  cnme  ;  when 
yoil  get  liark  to  N'vv  V'ork  give  riiv  love  f(»  the  hoys,"  the  dis- 
Miissnl  acroiiiplished  in  the  ^eMlleqt  way,  so  that  the  stranger 
may  take  It  ns  n  Mimplimeiit  rather  than  a  rehnke.  I  have 
known  Whitman  lo  nsp  this  defence  with  men  of  dislim  tion  tm 
frankly  ns  with  ohsi  iirp  and  Ignorant  persons. 

lie  has  a  liahit  of  regarding  himself  ohje*  lively  Me  will  speak 
of  his  work  as  if  it  were  another  man's,  will  see  his  print  iples 


136 


ly  RE   WALT   WHITMAN. 


as  a  cause,  will  use  "we"  in  place  of  "I,"  as  signifying  that 
others  participate  in  his  purposes  and  achievemints.  He  frankly 
owns  mistakes.  His  hospitality  and  love  know  no  abatement 
with  the  years.  "  If  I  were  to  write  my  '  Leaves'  over  again," 
he  says,  "  I  should  put  in  more  toleration  and  even  receptivity 
for  those  we  call  bad,  or  the  criminal." 

His  frankness  has  opened  him  to  all  sorts  of  attacks.  There 
are  pestilential  reporters — I  have  at  least  two  particular  offenders 
in  mind — who  have  repeatedly  misrepresented  him,  violating 
friendship  and  comnioM  honor  in  their  private  interest.  A  column 
of  "Sayings"  purporting  to  be  Whitman's,  and  signed  by  C. 
Sadakichi  Hartmann,  recently  appeared  in  the  New  York  Her- 
ald. It  was  full  of  idiotic  falsehood,  and  Stedman  and  Holmes 
were  among  the  victims.  One  note  in  particular,  in  caustic 
disparagement  of  Stedman,  between  whom  and  Whitman  there 
is  the  happiest  affection,  was  brutally  false.  It  throws  interest- 
ing light  on  the  autocratic  non-ethical  spirit  possible  undei" 
journalism,  to  ki  ''^\v  that  the  Herald  would  not  print  a  de- 
nial of  Hartmanr's  infamous  inventions,  though  such  a  dis- 
claimer was  sent  by  Dr.  Bucke  in  Whitman's  own  words. 
Whitman  himself  was  disturbed  and  angry.  Any  one  who 
knows  Whitman  knows  that  detraction  or  bitterness  in  crit- 
icism is  impossible  to  him.  Woodbury's  recent  "  Talks  with 
Emerson,"  and  Edward  Emerson's  book  about  his  father,  con- 
tain most  inexcusable  thrusts  at  Whitman.  He  lets  all  these 
things  take  their  course.  He  will  not  go  into  the  prints  with 
denials,  nor  will  ht  v,oui)sel  his  friends  to  do  so.  He  feels  that 
his  position  makes  the  evil  almost  inevitable,  and  that  his  books 
— set  in  such  frank  backgrot  ;id  and  relief — must  at  last  assure  him 
a  right  understanding  Nevertheless,,  he  appreciates  the  peculiar 
animus  of  certain  attacks  made  upon  him,  and  for  the  sake  of 
those  whom  they  injure — their  authors — resents  their  interjection 
and  impertinence,  "Emerson's  son  might  spare  his  father,  for 
it  is  the  father  who  is  hurt."  And  so,  with  august  patience,  he 
meets  all  the  shafts  of  vicissitude. 

I  am  often  asked,  "Is  Walt  Whitman  a  reader?"     Some 
serious  literalists  have  got  the  notion  that  he  does  not  read  at 


WALT  WHITMAN  AT  DATE. 


137 


all,  or  despises  books.  We  know  well  how  familiar  he  is  with 
the  Bible,  Homer,  Sliakspere,  copies  of  which  are  always  kept 
within  reach.  I  know  also,  that  there  is  a  cluster  of  other  books 
frequently  consulted.  A  random  remembrance  takes  in  Felton's 
"Greece,"  a  large  volume  containing  all  of  Walter  Scott's  po- 
etry, Ellis'  old  metrical  abstracts,  Hedge's  "Prose  Writers  and 
Poets  of  Germany,"  Voltaire's  Dictionary,  volumes  of  George 
Sand,  Volney,  Virgil,  Tennyson,  the  eleven  volumes  of  Sted- 
man's  "Library  of  American  Literature,"  Emerson,  Ingersoll, 
Ossian,  Epictetus,  Marcus  Aurelius,  Ticknor's  "  Spanish  Litera- 
ture," various  translations  of  the  classics,  Dante,  Hafiz,  Saadi, 
Omar  Khayjam,  Symonds.  This  is  to  mention  only  a  part. 
Yet  he  has  no  collection  except  of  what  he  terms  "  usi'ble  books." 
He  reads  the  papers.  Avoiding  discussions  of  religion  and 
politics,  he  seeks  those  items  which  out  of  the  daily  history  of  a 
time  are  sifted  for  permanent  uses.  He  still  gets  the  Long 
Islander,  his  own  child,  continuing  since  about  1839.  I  no- 
tice that  a  copy  of  this  paper  looks  us  in  the  face  from  the  con- 
fusion of  his  workroom,  as  photographed  by  Dr.  Johnston.  He 
reads  the  Camden  local  papers,  the  Critic,  the  great  dailies  of 
the  chief  cities,  and  fugitive  foreign  and  domestic  sheets. 
But  he  does  not  read  in  long  stretches  or  read  books  that 
bore  him.  His  friends  everywhere  forward  matter  which  they 
think  will  be  of  interest.  He  enjoys  the  illustrated  papers  and 
appreciates  what  they  are  doing  to  democratize  art.  He  likes 
to  examine  all  periodicals.  If  I  go  there  with  a  magazine 
under  my  arm,  or  a  paper  in  my  pocket,  he  is  quite  likely  to- 
ask  me  to  show  it  to  him  or  to  leave  it  for  a  day.  Any  choice 
bit  that  I  happen  upon  anywhere  in  my  reading  it  seems  to  give 
him  joy  to  hear  about  and  look  at  for  himself.  His  printer's  eye 
is  as  fresh  as  in  its  morning,  and  his  heart  responds  to  all  effec- 
tive pictures.  He  reads  current  books.  He  likes  to  look  inta 
all  that  appears  about  his  special  favorites — Carlyle,  Emerson, 
Ingersoll,  and  a  few  others.  He  does  not  read  Ruskin.  Relig- 
ious and  political  controversy  he  almost  wholly  eschews.  Relig- 
ious newspapers  and  books  of  a  theological  character  are  ignored. 
Yet  he  will  sometimes  read  significant  things  in  religious  contro- 


H 


(i 

I-. 


■1   11 

X 


tjs 


IN  RK   WALT   W  If  I  I'M  AN. 


versy — for  example,  Ingersoll's  disciisslon  with  Gladstone,  or 
Huxley  on  ihe  Pentateuch.  "  I  wish  the  Colonel  every  success  i»^ 
iiis  battle  with  the  theological  giants.  .  .  .  They  are  strongly  \i> 
Irencivd,  but  he  will  bring  them  all  down.  .  .  .  He  is  a  mighty 
force  in  this  niodern  world — this  America."  He  has  had  varied 
impulses  for  and  against  'I'olsto!.  He  thought  "  Sebastoiml  "  a 
masterpiece,  while  the  introspection  of  "My  Confession"  and 
"My  Religion"  oflended  him.  The  "  Kreutzer  Sonata" 
elicited  his  applause.  Amiel  he  speaks  of  as  a  sin-hunter. 
He  has  read  in  Ibsen  somewhat,  but  does  not  find  him 
attractive.  He  admits  that  the  meagerness  of  his  knowledge 
of  Hrowning  prevents  judgment.  He  speaks  of  special  pcr- 
tions  of  Browning's  work  and  credits  them  with  power  and 
native  right.  Tiiere  his  criticism  stops.  Tliough  he  reads 
stories  and  novels  least  of  all,  he  is  frank  and  young  even  with 
these,  and  perfectly  willing  to  try  a  new  light.  He  is  not  set  in 
any  tradition  whatever.  He  likes  to  hear  of  new  books,  new 
actors,  new  artists.  Ho  looks  tijion  himself  as  only  a  forerunner, 
at  the  best.  Why,  therefore,  may  not  any  day  be  the  dav  of  best 
arrival  ?  He  is  a  new-old  man  in  the  greatest  sense.  His  boy- 
hood still  cotiimands,  and  his  entlnisiasms  ascend  the  dizziest 
heights.  He  never  will  disctiss  a  book  save  as  it  asserts  a  human 
ajiotheosis  and  serves  human  ends.  He  sees  no  literary  greatness 
but  through  the  vision  o "  the  race.  No  man  has  a  more  penetrat- 
ing eye  for  shams.  Jolm  lUirroughs  once  told  me  that  he 
thought  Whitman  the  best  critic  in  America.  1  know  myself  the 
marvellous  complexities  of  style  and  subject  through  which  he 
will  pierce  a  straight  i)ath  to  the  central  purpose.  He  always  ex- 
presses .idmiration  for  the  great  iurists,  who  cannot  be  distracted 
by  multitudes  of  detail.  How  many  fledgeling  poets  send  their 
songs  to  him  !  I  find  he  cuts  a  few  pages — enough  to  free  the  first 
evidences  of  music,  if  there  be  any — and  that  pause  and  silence 
tell  the  rest.  He  looks  enough  at  the  poetry  of  magazines  to  per- 
ceive its  jirevai)ing  lack  of  flavor  and  conviction.  What  seal  art, 
he  will  ask.  but  flows  in  red  blood,  from  love  to  lover,  to  unite  and 
consecrate  un»lying  days  ?  Yet  he  is  never  harsh  in  special  crit- 
icism.    He  is  vehement  in  his  general  principles,  but  his  forgive- 


WALr  WHITMAN  AT  DATE. 


»J9 


nC99  and  affection  for  individuals  are  boinidless.  He  loves  books 
from  the  side  of  tiie  meciianic.  He  delights  in  tlie  simple  honest 
face  of  the  picas,  enjoys  and  commends  tiie  printer  who  is  gen- 
erous with  his  ink,  discovers  and  dwells  npon  any  felicitous  or 
skillful  (if  not  sensati(mal)  arrangement  of  page  or  cover.  In 
short,  the  integrity  of  a  book  throiighont  is,  he  claims,  an  im- 
portant mark  in  the  history  of  an  age.  He  rather  affects  Knglish 
printing,  and  on  the  whole  will  not  admit  that  the  art  has  yet 
given  America  all  its  secrets  and  success  all  its  laurels.  He  ap- 
preciates Ingersoll's  vivid  picture  of  the  average  book — "  On 
the  title  pages  of  these  books  you  will  find  the  imprint  of  the 
great  publishers — on  the  rest  of  the  pages,  nothing."  If  a  book 
have  not  brains  or  love  it  may  have  good  paper  and  honest  bind- 
ing. These  are  consolations  wlii(  h  he  acce|)ts  and  comminiicates 
with  rare  humor.  No  one  who  came  npon  him  frequently  and 
was  a  witness  of  all  his  tastes  and  moods  could  fail  to  perceive 
and  acknowledge  his  catholicity. 

Whitman  is  a  great  reformer — is  in  everything  non-conventional 
— yet  never  reads  "reform"  books.  "  Leaves  of  (Jrass"  epit- 
omizes a  thousand  philosophies.  All  the  modern  reformers  find 
themselves  reflected  in  "  Leaves  of  Clrass,"  and  each  reformer 
thinks  his  the  only  reflection,  and  Whitman  therefore  specialized. 
But,  including  all— anarchist,  socialist,  democrat,  aristocrat — 
Whitman  eludes  the  claims  of  all.  He  does  this  in  his  person 
as  in  his  books.  Men  are  angered  because  no  label  will  stick  to 
him.  A  distinguished  Irish  clergyman  came  in  one  summer 
evening,  and  his  very  preliminary — that  he  had  travelled  three 
thousand  miles  to  question  Whitman  about  certain  philosophies 
in  "  Leaves  of  (Jrass  " — was  an  ofTence,  and  made  the  interview 
ridiculously  brief.  Whitman  knows  little  or  nothing  of  the  de- 
tail of  industrial  movements — of  special  reforms  and  social  ideals 
— yet  there  is  V  day  no  more  sympathetic  appeal  than  his,  spoken 
freely  at  all  limes  to  his  rich  as  to  his  poor  friends,  for  the  sanc- 
tity und  elevation  of  the  fireside,  for  the  meting  of  justice  to  the 
masses,  for  all  possible  extinction  of  the  tyranny  of  circumstance. 
Great  capital,  emiihasis  placed  upon  possession,  the  ^c/cr/' of  social 
trappery,  invite  and    receive    his  disgust.      He   recognizes  the 


il 


'  m 


^* 


140 


IN  BE  WALT   WHITMAN. 


M 


vicious  tendencies  of  our  monopolistic  civilization,  and  with  a 
free  hand  sketciies  its  dangers.  "What  we  need  is  a  race  enjoy- 
ing just  harvests — not  a  special  few  grabbing  up  the  whole 
product  of  the  field." 

Whitman  never  forgets  his  debt,  and  that  of  his  ancestors,  to 
Eiias  Hicks.  He  abounds  in  reference  to  George  Sand,  a  paper- 
covered  translation  of  whose  "  Consuelo,"  belonging  to  his 
mother,  is  an  object  of  abiding  resource  and  affection.  He  com- 
mends the  scientific  spirit,  seeing  in  Darwin  and  typical  men  of 
his  character  the  clearest  eyes  of  our  generation.  His  whole  life 
/  is  elevated  to  such  covenants.  He  makes  truce  with  every  man 
for  the  best  that  is  in  him.  He  meets  laborer,  railroader,  clerk, 
merchant,  lawyer,  artist,  on  his  »  ^n  ground,  and  always  ith 
keen,  inquisitive  inspiration.  His  slightest  reference  to  mctl  -^r- 
hood  is  a  picture  of  household,  babe  and  man.  His  friendships 
have  been  the  greatest.  The  valorous  history  of  O'Connor  re- 
mains yet  to  be  told  in  that  sure  outline  and  fu''  color  which  it 
demands.  Whitman  repeats  again  and  again  that,  whatever  his 
receptivity,  that  of  O'Connor,  at  least  in  literature,  was  vastly 
greater.  There  are  warm  personal  relations  between  him  and 
Tennyson,  though  they  have  never  seen  each  other.  I  remember 
a  letter  "rom  Tennyson,  surrounded  by  its  rib  of  black,  redolent 
with  savor  of  wind  and  water,  a  strain  of  poetry  in  itself,  which 
Whitman  for  a  long  time  carried  in  his  vest  pocket.  What  he 
has  been  to  John  Burroughs,  that  writer  has  often  told  ;  but 
what  John  Burroughs  has  been  to  him,  in  years  of  national  and 
personal  war  and  peace,  is  unwritten  history.  New  years  bring 
new  lovers.  Dr.  Bucke,  whose  book  was  published  about  1883, 
Dowden,  Symonds,  Kennedy,  Sarrazin,  and  Bertz  are  regular  or 
occasional  correspondents.  The  eloquent  voice  and  pen  of 
Ingersoll  have  been  potent  for  Wliitman  on  more  than  one  oc- 
casion. Whitman  writes  them  his  postals  or  brief  letters  in  a 
style  simple,  frank,  and  full  of  affection.  These  messages  abound 
in  the  gentle  cadent  confidences  of  love — in  flashes  of  poetic 
feeling  and  glowing  peaks  of  sunny  thought ;  but  they  are  never 
epigrammatic.  He  is  not  in  the  least  demonstrative,  never  ex- 
cessively applauding,  never  making  superfluous  calls  for  devotion. 


WALT  WHITMAN  AT  DATE. 


141 


He  never  apologizes.  He  is  not  afraid  to  discuss  the  weaknesses 
of  his  friends,  and  never  slow  to  point  out  "  the  much  that  Walt 
Whitman  mu^t  answer  for."  He  treats  his  household  as  by  a 
holy  law.  Mrs.  Davis,  his  housekeeper,  never  finds  him  indiffer- 
ent, condescending,  or  morose.  His  spirit  ignores  all  petty 
household  worries.  Warren  Fritzinger,  who  attends  rpon  Whit- 
man, and  is  provided  for  through  a  fund  statedly  replenished  by 
a  group  of  Whitman's  lovers,  and  who  finds  his  service  a  delight, 
attests  that  in  whatever  hour  or  necessity.  Whitman's  most  in- 
timate humor  is  to  the  last  degree  composed  and  hopeful.  In  his 
relations  with  his  neighbors.  Whitman,  while  homely  and  affec- 
tionate, always  stops  short  of  familiarity.  He  sends  the  sick 
among  them  offerings  of  fruit,  or  of  reading  matter,  or  any  minor 
commodities  which  brighten  afflicted  days.  One  of  his  delights 
is  in  the  liberal  distribution  of  the  papers,  par  phlets  and  books 
that  so  plentifully  arrive.  To  England,  to  Germany,  to  Australia, 
to  our  own  West,  to  institutions  of  charity,  to  Bucke,  to  Bur- 
roughs, to  Kennedy,  to  Mrs.  O'Connor,  go  the  informal  re- 
minders of  his  remembrance — always  the  particular  oaper  to  the 
one  in  whom  he  thinks  it  will  find  the  best  response,  I  have  a 
large  collection  of  papers,  manuscripts  and  letters  which  he  has 
at  different  times  given  me.  I  am  often  the  bearer  of  gifts 
to  the  "boys"  in  Philadelphia.  He  will  get  his  magazine 
pieces  duplicated,  in  order  that  he  may  send  copies  to  his  family ; 
and  he  will  similarly  use  large  numbers  of  newspapers  containing 
significant  references  to  himself.  Thus  he  is  saved  the  burden 
of  a  large  correspondence,  since  his  friends  will  understand  by 
such  tokens  that  he  has  them  near  at  heart,  however  the  labors 
of  letter-writing  may,  in  these  days,  go  unperformed. 

Whatever  the  clouds  that  gather,  the  spiritual  Whitman  re- 
mains undisturbed.  There  is  no  fall  in  sweetness,  no  diminu- 
tion of  vital  affection,  no  reduction  in  will.  His  criticism  is  as 
keen  as  when  it  spoke  its  first  word.  He  remarks  a  break  in  visual 
clearness,  that  his  memory  has  recently  been  less  faithful,  and 
that  his  hearing  has  lost  in  delicacy.  The  quality  of  his  work 
defies  the  charge  of  deterioration,  but  he  can  by  no  means  do  as 
much,  or  work  with  the  same  fire  and  intensity,  as  in  the  past. 


fi" 


!j 


X4a 


IN  BE   WALT  WHITMAN. 


I 

1 

f 

I 

Application  wearies  him.  Yet  he  is  occupied  the  larger  part  of 
every  day.  Though  he  outlines  and  discusses  many  unaccom- 
plished plans,  I  notice  that  the  defect  is  not  in  his  plans  but  in 
their  issue — that  the  body  will  not  readily  respond.  He  is  taken 
out  regularly  in  his  chair,  perhaps  to  the  outskirts  of  the  town, 
where  he  may  scan  the  free  sky,  the  shifting  clouds,  watch  the 
boys  at  base-ball,  or  breathe  in  drowsily — "  for  reasons,"  he 
would  say — the  refreshing  air;  or  he  is  guided  to  the  river,  with 
its  boats  and  tides  and  revelation  of  sunset.  In  winter  his  sensi- 
tiveness to  the  cold  is  apt  to  house  him,  or  force  his  goings-forth 
into  the  earlier  hours,  near  mid-day.  There  was  a  time  when  he 
spent  many  noons  and  evenings  on  the  ferry-boats,  but  he  is 
disinclined  in  these  later  times  to  face  crowds  and  confusion 
and  questioners,  and  therefore  seeks  less-travelled  ways. 

Whitman's  life  is  p'-actically  spent  in  one  room  of  his  house. 
I  have  already  alluded  to  it :  a  second-story  room,  about  twenty 
feet  square,  facing  north.  He  likens  it  to  "  some  big  old  cabin 
for  a  kinky  sailor — captain  of  a  ship."  We  see  there  two  old 
tables — one  a  Wiiitman  heirloom,  having  more  than  a  hundred 
years  of  history,  and  another  made  in  Brooklyn  by  his  father. 
Scarcely  one  piece  of  modern  furniture  appears.  There  is  a 
wood  stove,  in  which  he  keeps  up  a  rousing  fire  in  cold  seasons; 
a  solid,  uncreaking  bed,  plain  and  old ;  some  heavy  boxes,  in 
which  he  stores  copies  of  his  own  books ;  an  ample  rattan-seated 
chair  with  timber-like  rockers  and  arms,  large  as  ship's  spars,  with 
a  wolf-skin  thrown  over  its  back  when  winter  appears.  He 
sits  here— reads,  scribbles,  ruminates.  His  writing  is  always 
done  on  his  knee,  a  tablet  being  his  constant  companion. 
Around  him  are  the  books  which  have  been  named  and  others, 
spread  upon  chairs,  tables,  and  floor,  '/otters,  papers,  magazines, 
manuscripts,  memoranda  slips,  are  scattered  in  greatest  confusion. 
There  are  certain  volumes  here  of  vhich  he  says  he  " reads 
lingeringly  and  never  tires."  His  tables  are  never  without  flow- 
ers. As  he  can  walk  only  by  the  aid  of  furniture,  cane,  and 
wall,  he  has  abandoned  any  attempt  at  apparent  order  and  what 
strict  housekeepers  would  call  neatness.  But  he  likes  his  room 
well  ventilated.     His  tastes,  habits,  looks,  show  more  plainly  in 


WALT   WHITMAN  AT  DATE. 


U3: 


old  age  his  farmer  and  Holland  ancestry,  with  their  unartificial 
and  Quaker  tendencies. 

He  constantly  asserts  that  no  sketch  of  him  would  hit  the- 
mark  that  left  out  the  principal  object  of  his  whole  life,  namely,, 
the  composition  and  finish  of  his  tnagnum  opus,  the  poems,  con- 
sistently with  their  own  plan.     This  has  been  his  aim,  work  and 
thought  from  boyhood,  and  the  proper  rounding  of  it  has  become 
the  joy  and  resolve  of  his  old  age.    All  the  later  writings  show  how 
unfailingly  this  purpose  controls.    Read  the  concluding  poems  in 
"  November  Boughs,"  which  we  thought  would  be  the  last,  then' 
"Old  Age's  Ship  and  Crafty  Death's,"  "To  my  71st  year," 
"  The  Voice  of  Death,"  and  latest  and  perhaps  most  wonderful  of 
all,  "  To  the  Sunset  Breeze,"  as  indicating  how  this  giant  man,, 
sitting  here  in  the  freedom  which  no  physical  disorder  can  destroy, 
is  establisning  a  very  heaven  of  purposeful  stars.     He  has  pictures 
of  his  friends  about  him.     The  mantelpiece,  the  walls,  even  the 
tables,  have    these   reminders.     Several  pictures  of  Whitman, 
made  in  oil,  by  Sidney  Morse,  are,  or  have   been,  upon  the 
walls.     Dr.  Johnston  took  one  of  them  home  with  him  to  Eng- 
land,    In  the  hall  are  copies  of  the  two  Morse  busts.     Upon  the 
door,  or  sofa,  against  the  wall,  on  nails  and  under  papers,  is. 
his  clothing.     An  elegant,  never-used,  dusty,  brass  lamp  is  set  in. 
the  corner.     His  evening  light  is  either  from  the  broken-chim- 
neyed drop  on  one  of  the  tables,  or  from  a  gas-jet  in  another  part 
of  the  room.   The  room  adjoining,  in  which  his  attendant  sleeps,, 
has    likewise   its   loaded   bookshelves    and  overflowing  boxes. 
Friends  are  surprised  to  find  him  living  in  such  simplicity.     But 
this  room,  with  its  homely  liberty,  gives  him  all  there  is  of  house- 
hold sacredness  and  content.     There  is  probably  no  other  study 
like  it  in  the  world.     It  is  rather  the  den  of  a  newspaper  office — 
the  odd  and  end  of  a  household — yet  a  royal  chamber,  too,  such 
as  this  world  cannot  companion  to-day.     Here  is  the  field  which 
invites  the  rally  of  friends.     He  is  on  no  throne.     But  his  dig- 
nity and  placid  courtesy  possess  all  who  approach.     The  world- 
seeks  him  in  this  spot,  to  forget  instantly  all  the  environing^, 
humbleness,  and   to  know  the  soul  by  which  the  place  is  in- 
habited. 


♦  i 


!  I'l 


': 


M4 


IN  RK  WALT  wnrntAtf, 


All  the  features  «)f  Whitman's  fare  siigncst  inception  ami  ani- 
plitMUf.  Ilenre  the  failure  of  Alexamlcr  to  make  of  his  pinched 
and  fuiinalixed  Whitman  anything  which  can  have  value.  Hence 
the  explanation  why  Kakins,  in  that  giorinuB  head  foun<l  in  Whit* 
man's  parlor,  expressed  by  so  many  hints  the  life  of  the  man.  Ihit 
even  Kakins  seems  to  me  to  have  caught  Whitman  rather  as  he  said, 
"  I  have  said  that  the  soul  is  not  mt)re  than  the  body,"  than  as 
he  said,  "  I  have  saiil  that  the  body  is  not  more  than  the  soul." 
Whitnian  has  been  photographni  as  often  perhaps  as  any  public 
man  who  ever  lived,  and  tiie  photographs  are  in  the  main  better 
than  any  oil  or  crayon  piutrnit.  The  Clutekunst  picture  repro- 
duccil  by  the  A^av  I^nj^hinif  A/iixtieiHc  is  the  very  latest  (^laken 
williiii  a  year),  aiid  sfilisfios  Whitman  as  fully  as  llic  best.  Morse's 
rlav,  uniting  what  Makins  caught  with  something  mure,  has 
noble  power  and  faithfulness.  There  are  a  couple  of  crayons,  the 
work  of  my  father,  which  are  strongly  handled.  Whitman  is 
gencnnis  with  the  artists,  giving  them  all  the  sittings  they 
desire.  All  that  picture  can  do  for  any  man  has  been  done  for 
him.* 

Whitman  is  eminently  loved  as  a  man.  He  keeps  on  gaining 
friends,  and  these  frienils  are  marked  men.  He  has  unceasing 
messages  from  dcvote«l  supporters  in  Australia.  A  group  of  Lan- 
cashire disciples  has  just  been  discovered.  (Ine  of  the  group  has 
within  a  few  months  paid  him  a  visit,  made  a  series  of  photographs 
of  dwelling,  street,  room,  and  nurse,  passed  a  night  in  the  house 
in  which  Whitman  was  born,  visited  Gilchrist  at  Centreport, 
Long  Island,  and  Burroughs  at  West  Park,  on  the  Hudson — and 
has  since  his  return  published  an  account  of  his  novel  pilgrim- 
age. 

The  dinner  given  Whitman  on  his  last  birthday  had  remark- 
able featiires  apart  from  Ingersoll's  great  sjieech,  which  Whitman 
thought  the  most  powerful  extempore  utterance  he  had  ever 
known  or  of  which  there  is  any  record.  Tiie  later  lecture  by 
Ing  -^oU  on  WMiitman  was  also  significant.     The  noble  motive 

*  Dr.  Riicke  has  what  is  j>racticnlly  a  complete  collection  of  Whitman  por- 
traits. Their  numlier  and  range  are  enormous.  Almost  every  photographer 
of  nc  te  in  the  East  has  been  tempted  to  make  tome  trial. 


Il'/f /- r   WIIITMA N  AT  DA TK. 


»45 


wliich  gave  It  ImckKmnnd,  its  rcnli nation,  the  splendid  proportions 
of  its  benefit,  Ingersoirstinhesitntinggcnero.iity.nre  hidden  factors 
of  which  few  know.  The  tittcrance  itself  Whitnnn  regards  as 
in  many  resjiccts  the  nioRt  significan*  in  the  stormy  career  of 
••  Leaves  of  (truss."  Synioiids  alway«,  addresses  him  as  "  Mas- 
ter," and  writes  him  the  warmest  lot'crs.  'I'hc  host  of  his  callers 
is  great — every  day  some.  John  Hurroiighs  comes  down  once  a 
year,  in  the  fall,  from  his  estate,  to  spend  several  days  In  Cam- 
den. Whitman's  family  are  all  more  or  less  distant.  He  has  a 
sister  in  Vermont,  another  on  Long  Island,  a  brother,  George, 
in  Iturlington,  New  Jersey.  Mis  brother  "Jeff,"  who  recently 
died  in  St.  Louis,  was  an  engineer  of  note,  dear  to  Whitman, 
who  trr  oiled  with  him  in  earlier  years.  Records  may  be  foimd 
in  "Specimen  Days"  in  mention  of  "  JcfT,"  to  whom  Whitman 
has  just  written  loving  and  memorable  words  of  tribute  for  an 
engineering  journal. 

Whitman  has  instinctive  reverence  for  women,  always  address- 
ing and  approaching  them  with  gentle  courtesy.  And  women 
reciprocate  the  tender  respect.  Women,  who  are  first  to  wonder 
at  his  gospel  of  sex,  are  first  to  accept  it,  too,  and  least  willing 
of  all  to  yield  its  sacred  im|)ort.  And  with  their  intuitions 
awake  and  sensitive,  they  early  realize  how  Whitman's  concrete 
net  reflects  the  word  he  has  spoken.  No  man  is  so  loved  of  strong 
women.  It  is  happiness  to  hear  him  talk  of  "  the  mothers  of 
America"— how  our  future  is  involved  with  their  symmetrical  de- 
velopment and  high  faith. 

His  atmosphere  breathes  composure,  power,  sweetness,  rever- 
ence, the  background  of  all  moral  force.  He  rarely  speaks  of 
morality,  yet  is  profoundly  moral  in  all  that  he  does  and  says. 
He  puts  the  brightest  face  on  all  he  sees.  His  discussion  of  cur- 
rent vices  is  strong  and  denunciatory — yet  unfailing  in  its  look 
forward.  I  never  know  him  to  strike  a  note  of  despair.  His 
darkest  pictures  leave  a  spot  for  hope — issue  a  sunniness  and 
assurance.  As  between  the  final  poetic  utterance  of  Whittier 
and  Tennyson  he  rather  preferi."*d  the  first,  as  having  a  more  un- 
questionable atmosphere  of  joy. 

Whitman  is  often  spoken  of  as  "  queer  "  or  *•  eccentric."    He 

10 


Q. 


,**%-*- 


It 


146 


IN  RK   WALT  WHITMAN. 


r 
}. 

s 

\  ■ 

\ 


is  neither,  except  in  the  sense  that  must  always  distinguish  indi- 
viduality. He  delights  in  free  speech,  gravity  and  purity.  He 
has  the  clean  instincts  which  prevail  over  and  explain  grossness 
and  squalor,  whether  of  life  or  voice — evil  narrative  or  cheer- 
less philosophy.  He  delights  to  tell  and  to  hear  stories.  His 
sense  of  the  humorous  is  strong.  He  discusses  his  contempo- 
raries with  the  utmost  freedom,  yet  with  the  utmost  sweetness. 
Any  just  report  of  his  conversation  would  reveal  the  simple  power 
and  lambent  reach  of  his  thought. 

I  know  no  great  ^vent  to  pass  by  him  unnoticed.  All  the 
world's  afTairs  are  his  affairs.  He  loves  the  transactions  of  big 
conferences — of  scientists,  mechanics,  laborers,  engineers.  He 
enjoys  all  that  tends  to  enlarge  the  scope  ci  man's  hope,  any- 
thing that  adds  to  the  generosity  of  ou.  national  example, 
anything  that  in  religion  or  society  oi  politics  is  for  breadth 
and  solidarity.  He  is  intensely  attracted  toward  the  expand- 
ing movements  of  labor  and  the  serious  outcome  they  seem  to 
invoke.  He  disdains  patriotism  in  the  common  sense — looks  to 
America  to  lead  new  ways  rather  than  to  halt  till  all  are  ready 
to  come.  He  is  lame,  he  suffers  pain  and  physical  decadence, 
he  knows  that  by  gradual  retreats  life  is  leaving  him ;  yet  his 
light  that  burns  on  the  height,  and  his  loving  and  capacious 
dream  and  carol  for  America  and  for  the  world,  are  strong  as  in 
youth,  and  seem  sustained  from  exhaustless  deposits.  His  amenity 
is  invariable.  His  respect  for  man  as  man  is  infinite.  It  is  the 
first  note  and  the  last  of  his  song — its  dawn  and  sunset. 

Day  by  day  he  sends  forth  some  new  message  to  the  world — 
some  poem,  some  bit  of  penetrating  prose — written  on  the  oddest 
pieces  of  paper  utilized  in  the  history  of  literature.  These  are 
leaves  of  immortal  life.  He  writes  a  large  hand,  uses  a  mam- 
moth Falcon  pen,  will  dip  in  none  but  the  blackest  ink ;  he  will 
not  punctuate  by  the  rule  of  schools,  will  not  adopt  the  phrase- 
ology of  taste,  will  not  rhyme  like  the  poets,  will  not  perfume 
and  carpet  his  study,  will  not  accept  household  and  architecture 
as  substitutes  for  virtue  and  freedom  ;  he  will  not  reverence  the 
mechanic  in  man  more  than  the  king  in  man,  but  the  man  in 
man,  be  his  dress  or  titles  what  they  may ;  he  will  not  confuse 


WALT  WHITMAN  AT  DATE. 


M7 


uish  indi- 
rity.  He 
grossness 
or  cheer- 
ries.  His 
:ontempo- 
sweetness. 
iple  power 

.  All  the 
ons  of  big 
leers.  He 
hope,  any- 

I  example, 
or  breadth 
lie  expand- 
ey  seem  to 
e — looks  to 

II  are  ready 
decadence, 
im;  yet  his 
d  capacious 
strong  as  in 
His  amenity 
e.  It  is  the 
set. 

the  world — 
m  the  oddest 
These  are 
uses  a  mam- 
ink  ;  he  will 
the  phrase- 
not  perfume 
architecture 
■everence  the  ^ 
the  man  in  1 
not  confuse  . 


uses  with  ends,  will  not  repulse  the  criminal  and  invite  the 
saint,  will  not  defer  to  the  humor  of  magazinists,  will  not 
minimize  his  nature  in  order  that  conventior  may  profit,  wilt 
not  travel  the  polite  earth  for  fame  or  gain. 

These  denials  are  thick,  every  one,  with  affirmation  :  for  all 
that  Whitman  denies  is  denied  out  of  respect  for  that  primal  self 
which  to-day  utters  scripture  and  to-morrow  will  pulse  in  the  life 
of  the  race.  What  men  need  to  know  of  him  is  his  wonderful; 
simplicity  and  capaciousness — that  manuscript,  house,  room,, 
nurse,  pen,  chirography,  friendships,  speech,  all  point  to  im- 
pulses,  means,  and  ends,  unusual  and  great.  It  is  the  mark 
of  a  new  entrance  upon  the  stage.  It  is  the  sign  of  man  to  men 
thai  they  must  come  from  the  cover  of  goods — that  the  hideous 
mockeries  of  society  carry  death  and  dishonor  in  their  plausible 
splendor — that  the  summoner  himself  is  the  first  to  demonstrate 
that  possessions,  which  the  world  mistakes  for  the  necessity  of 
power,  are  simple  leaves  on  the  wind  when  a  strong  man  arrives. 

Whitman  is  not  America  except  as  America  is  universal.  He 
is  democracy — and  democracy  has  no  geographical  word.  He 
has  taught  literature  that  it  is  not  to  tell  a  life  but  to  be  one; 
and  when  priest  and  prophet,  editor  and  lawyer,  mechanic  and 
tradesman,  have  learned  this  lesson,  equity  will  prevail,  and  the 
now  obscured  stars  in  the  moral  heavens  will  stand  forth  in  honor 
of  the  restoration. 


M 


Wait's  stronj;  jMiirit*  arc  his  linmtl,  free,  flowing  discourse  of  lifej  hit 
coniinaiul  over  liir(;o  prospects  of  life;  liis  vi({()r;  his  slrikinK  ilown  tu  deep 
siaiuiariU;  the  roll  of  loine  of  his  grriiul  old  lines,  some  of  them  holding 
nmrc  thnn  volumes. 

There  is  much  iniiierfectif)n  in  his  work.  In  fact,  hut  Utile  Is  perfect. 
l,fi  US  s,iy  it  while  there  is  yet  opi><>rtunity.  A  time  will  con»e  when  Walt 
Whitman — the  so  long  ignored  (except  liy  n  few,  among  whom  were  those 
who  scorned,  insulted,  persecuted  him),  afterwards  tlie  hutl  of  the  irrepressible 
w  itling  : — nay,  perhaps  the  day  is  coMing  fast  when  it  will  be  heresy,  prcsump- 
lion,  folly,  to  suggest  that  this  Wa't  Whitman  is  not  |X!rfect  and  complete. 

The  man  or  woman  who  wouhl  read  Walt  Whitman  and  carry  away  evil 
is  worthy  only  of  pity. 

The  (jucstion  of  morality  is  not  depen<lent  on  the  yea  or  noy,  or  the  bold* 
ness  of  address,  or  iliscreet  abstentions,  of  the  author.  Cant,  sycophancy, 
Magnation,  weak  tiber,  ore  worse  evils  than  frceilon  of  speech.  There  is  no 
virtue  in  emasculation,  and  sometimes  little  enough  in  mere  prudence. 

We  wear  the  very  garb  of  philosojihers  after  reading  S|>encer,  we  are 
more  vigorous  after  Carlyle,  more  healthy  in  reading  Walt  Whilmon. 

Arthur  Lynch  :  "AfoJtrH  Authors.** 
(148) 


"THE  GOOD  GRAY  POET;"  SUPPLEMENTAL 


Br   IflLl.lAM  IHH'Cl.AS  O'CONNOK. 


[Tliis  unpul)li»heil  letter  l>y  the  Inlc  William  Dmij-lnn  O'Connor,  founJ 
ninoii^  iiis  |iii|icrx  ut  hin  dcntli,  wni  dntcil  January  jj,  iMdd,  ami  was  evi- 
dently wriitcn  in  (lie  heat  of  (he  controversy  (hat  wait  armi^ed  liy  his  faniou* 
pnni|ihli't  of  the  prcviouH  Septend)er,  in  which  for  the  lirst  (inte  and  l>y  hi* 
hanil  Whitman  appeared  as  "  The  (fOod  (Iray  I'oct."  The  Harlan  episoile 
referred  to  in  the  letter  is  too  jjenerally  known,  and  too  frecpicnily  leferrcd  ti> 
in  this  vohinic,  to  need  repetition  here.  O'Connor's  pamphlet  is  to-day  nccet- 
gihie  in  Doctor  Hucke's  Life  of  Walt  Whitman,  in  which  volume  it  is  printeil 
as  an  independent  chapter,  in  connection  with  an  introductory  letter,  marked 
by  the  same  power  and  character,  contributed  supplementally  in  l88j.  'I'he 
letter  herewith  given  was  written  to  the  Iloston  'l'>,xn$ciif>t.  For  reasons 
of  which  we  are  not  cognizant  it  was  never  printed.— TllK  Kditors.] 

Your  notice  of  "The  Good  Gray  Poet,"  wliich  1  have  only 
recently  received,  appears  to  be  duly  itupressed  with  the  fiict  that 
I  did  not  try  to  cast  my  pamphlet  in  that  placid  style  of  Addi- 
son which,  I  see,  the  latest  hij;h  Oxford  criticism  in  the  person 
of  Matthew  Arnold  considers  stiperior  to  the  style  of  Jeremy 
Taylor.  Your  notice  is  also  obviotisly  penetrated  with  the  con- 
viction that  I  am  one  of  those  tasteless  and  extravagant  beings 
who  to  the  vindication  of  an  angnst  poet,  long  nnd  deeply 
wronged,  bring  nothing  of  that  Attic  tranquillity  of  spirit  whose 
highest  tritjtnph  j)erhaps  appears  •->  the  perfect  composure  of  the 
Price  Current.  Levity  aside,  however,  I  thank  you  for  what 
you  say  of  my  little  work.  Doubtless  you  praise  it  far  more  and 
censure  it  much  less  than  it  deserves. 

But  I  cannot  feel  an  equal  satisfaction  at  the  cold  and  slight- 
ing, almost  justificatory,  tone  in  which  you  treat  the  action  of 
the  Secretary  of  the  Interior,  and  as  the  opinion  of  the  Tran- 
script is  valued  by  me,  permit  me  in  all  kindness  and  courtesy  to 

('49) 


"#"%-*- 


ISO 


IX  HE  WALT  WHITMAN. 


■observe,  that  I  do  not  think  that  your  apprehension  of  my  posi- 
tion in  respect  to  his  conduct,  is  either  clear  or  fair.  Let  me 
tell  you  why. 

The  main  view  my  pamphlet  takes  of  this  matter,  directly  and 
I  think  justly  i.onnects  it  with  the  interests  of  intellectual  lib- 
erty and  the  rights  of  authors  in  this  age.  It  is  an  age  when  the 
dark  spirit,  born  of  the  narrow  mind  and  rotten  heart,  which  so 
often  compelled  the  richest  and  boldest  meanings  of  the  great 
literature  if  medieval  Europe  to  skulk  in  enigma  and  innuendo, 
and  which  followed  thought  everywhere  with  the  rack,  the  fagot 
and  the  axe,  no  longer  fronts  its  victims  in  the  robes  of  the  in- 
quisitor or  the  bloody  jerkin  of  the  torturer,  but  wears  the  re- 
spectable black  coat  of  the  dull  divine  or  the  office-jacket  of  the 
ass  reviewer.  Hegel  denounced  as  "an  obscene  bird  of  the 
night,"  and  made  odious  by  critical  interpretation;  Kant  mud- 
balled  witli  epithets,  and  his  thought  screened  thickly  with  lies ; 
Swedenborg,  with  purity  as  of  the  darkling  dawn,  assailed  as  the 
apostle  of  lechery;  Voltaire  coffined  in  slander;  Humboldt 
labelled  "  infidel ;  "  Fourier  advertised  into  abomination  as  the 
high  pi  iest  of  anarchy  and  brothelry — these  are  triumphs  almost 
worthy  of  the  bolder  hour  when,  livid  with  hatred,  that  spirit  of 
the  pit  tore  handsfull  of  pages  from  hundreds  of  copies  of  Mon- 
taigne, shrieked  through  the  Puritan  at  Shakspere  or  through 
the  Papist  at  Rabelais,  and  gave  Campanella  to  the  rack  and 
Bruno  to  the  fire.  What  for  his  only  too  bounded  but  all-noble 
thought,  turns  out  old  Comte  from  his  professor's  chair  to  sub- 
sist on  the  charity  of  scholars?  What  for  a  historic  speculation 
on  the  gentle  god  of  old  Judea,  sends  forth  Renan  amidst  a  howl 
of  priests  from  the  French  University?  What  assaults  with 
printed  yells  Colenso,  Parker,  Maurice,  Strauss,  Buckle,  Powell, 
Darwin,  Lyell,  Huxley,  Lecky,  Mill?  What  gives  a  gratified 
audience  to  the  hammerer  of  tin  foil  from  gold  proverbs,  as  he 
maligns  Goethe  and  defames  Emerson?  What  derides  as  a 
crazed  fanatic  Wendell  Phillips,  scholar,  statesman,  the  cheva- 
lier of  our  politics?  What  treats  with  social  dishonor  the 
highest  heart,  the  subtlest  intellect,  this  day  in  England,  the 
noble  and  gracious  lady  who  wrote  "  Romola  ?  "     What  draws 


i 


"THE  GOOD  GRAY  POET:"  SUPPLEMENTAL. 


151 


infamy  like  a  curtain  across  the  fame  of  the  first  woman 
in  France,  great  as  Sophocles,  George  Sand?  What  poisons 
public  opinion  against  every  noble  thinker  who  aims  to  greatly 
benefit  mankind?  The  operations  of  that  dark  Janus,  still 
strong  on  earth,  bigot  on  one  side  and  on  the  other  prude  I 
All  thought,  all  life,  suffers  from  it.  Here  is  the  cancer  we  so 
gingerly  call  "The  Great  Social  Evil"— ghastly,  mournful, 
perilous  to  society;  and  you  know  that  such  is  the  mental 
narrowness  and  nasty  nicety  of  the  times  that  it  cannot  even  be 
discussed,  though  discussion  must  precede  remedy.  What  pub- 
lisher would  undertake  the  Shakspere  Drama,  if  written  in  our 
age  ?  Under  the  terror  of  our  literary  and  social  conventions, 
what  writer  could  dare  project  upon  the  mind  a  figure  so  great, 
so  real  as  Sancho  Panza  ?  Literature  is  dwarfed,  degraded : 
under  the  spell  of  "intelligent  criticism,"  "public  opinion," 
"  good  taste,"  the  author  is  no  longer  man,  but  mannikin.  I  will 
not  offend  by  pointing  at  our  own  writers,  but  look  at  Dickens. 
With  genius  enough  to  have  rivalled  Cervantes,  warned  back,  he 
shrinks  from  his  possibilities,  shrinks  from  verities,  portrays  all 
manners  except  those  Shakspere  dared  to  portray  ;  will  tell  you 
in  conversation  all  about  the  devil  lusts  of  the  original  of  Quilp, 
but  in  the  book  never  put;;  one  touch  to  the  character  that  re- 
minds you  of  the  grand  and  absolute  fidelity  to  truth  of  the  hand 
that  created  Cloten,  or  Thersites,  or  Caliban.  Contrast  as  a 
presentation  of  a  man  possessed  with  passion,  Bradley  Headstone 
in  "  Our  Mutual  Friend  "  with  Claude  TroUo  in  Hugo's  "  Notre 
Dame."  Which  is  real?  Which  is  true?  What  influence  for- 
bade the  English  ncvcli':^  to  give  to  his  creation  the  life-like 
reality,  the  fiery  flesh  and  blood  of  the  archdeacon  of  Hugo  ? 
Look  at  Thackeray,  born  a  giant  satirist,  gifted  with  the  divine 
power  to  make  villains  tremble  ;  the  charmed  circle  of  convf.n- 
tion  is  drawn  around  him  ;  he  shrinks  under  the  fatal  magic  into 
a  burly  pigmy  ;  drop)s  the  tremendous  knout  of  great  satire  for  a 
gentleman's  riding  whip;  flinches,  spares,  moderates;  never 
strikes  any  vices,  any  crimes,  that  one  may  not  decently  name, 
though  these  are  the  worst  ;  turns  away  from  the  dreadful  massed 
miseries  and  wrongs  and  shames  of  England  ;  becomes  a  beater 


.•'It.'       ,  '  ^TTTT  .-^."-Ji. 


IS* 


IN  RE  WALT  WHITMAN. 


\ 


of  dogs  not  merely  dead,  but  rotten,  like  the  Georges — a  beater 
of  poodle  lords  and  wiffet  flunkeys — but  a  sparer  of  the  huge, 
powerful,  cruel,  bloody  bull  dog — British  government  and 
society  ;  and  at  last,  when  all  is  done,  is  nothing  but  the  admir- 
able melancholy  broken  torso  that  might  have  been  the  English 
Juvenal.  Look  at  Tennyson  ;  restrictions  are  put  upon  him,  and 
with  the  highest  endowments,  he  submits  to  them  ;  he  deserts  the 
mighty  revolutionary  ideas  of  the  nineteenth  century  for  verbal 
color  and  music ;  while  America  is  locked  in  the  death-grapple 
of  civil  war  for  them  all,  and  the  noblest  minds  of  England  are 
one  with  her  cause,  and  Lancashire  starves  in  silence  lest  her  ban- 
ner should  stagger  in  the  battle,  he,  a  poet,  sits  behind  his  roses 
at  Fariingford,  a  secessionist.  And  as  a  poet,  yielding  to  the  im- 
posed contiitions  of  his  time,  he  who  should  be  one  of  the 
brave  breed  that  make  men  in  love  with  liberty  turns  frnni  the 
actual,  rude,  incomparable  beauty  of  Nature  in  its  totality,  to 
mirror  in  his  verse  a  selected  and  assorted  universe ;  becomes 
the  poet  of  the  garden  instead  of  the  globe,  becomes  the  poet  of 
the  gentleman  and  the  lady  instead  of  the  man  and  the  woman  ; 
and,  in  fine,  is  only  saved  by  the  necessities  of  his  genius  from 
being  merely  the  prince  of  confectioners.  Nearly  every  great 
book  expurgated — Eschylus,  Juvenal,  Tacitus,  Lucretius,  Shaks- 
pere,  Plutarch,  Dant6,  the  Bible,  accused — yes,  actually  accused 
this  very  month  by  gentlemen  who  undertake  in  the  public 
journals  to  shove  aside  Aristotle  and  Longinus  and  teach  me 
criticism — accused  of  "  loose  writing,"  of  -'improprieties,"  of 
"  indecency,"  and  expurgated  : — the  artistic,  the  moral  unity  of 
their  impression  thus  destroyed,  the  educational  purpose  and 
power,  the  liberating  and  enlarging  influence,  residing  just  as 
much,  I  insist,  and  every  thoughtful  man  knows,  in  their  "  in- 
decent," as  in  their  "decent  "  passages,  thus  frustrated.  Man, 
nature,  society,  things  as  they  are,  fearlessly  reported  no  longer  : 
letters  warned  into  omission,  hiatus,  concealment,  silence,  for- 
bidden to  afi"ord  any  rich  or  ample  lesson  ;  the  arriere  pensee  on 
every  page ;  thought  limping  in  shackles  ;  a  mean  moralism  sup- 
planting science  ;  the  writers  dwarfs  and  fops  and  slaves  ;  the 
few  who  dare  covered  with  obloquy ;  literature  on  all  sides  en- 


"THE  GOOD  GRAY  POET:"  SUPPLEMENTAL. 


153 


couraged  to  please  rather  than  serve,  and  bidding  fair  to  sink  to 
the  uses  of  candy — this  is  the  picture  !  You  know,  I  presume, 
the  recent  angry  mutter  that  flew  around  your  own  city  wiien 
Ticknor  &  Fields  ventured  to  print  the  superb  Gulistan  of  Saadi 
without  expurgation.  The  very  lexicons  are  expurgated ; 
Roget's  Thesaurus  :  the  Dictionary  (incubus).  Now  at  such  a 
time  as  this,  when  "good  taste,"  "public  opinion,"  "intelli- 
gent criticism"  have  contrived,  one  would  think,  sufficient  dis- 
couragements and  obstacles  to  the  free  action  of  conscience  and 
genius — when  literature  is  deprived  of  the  conditions  necessary 
to  develop  it  into  greatness — the  head  of  a  great  Department  of 
Government  in  America,  taking  one  step  further,  sets  the  bold 
example  of  direct  persecution.  French  tyranny  vacating  the 
chairs  of  Comte  and  Renan  ;  English  theologic  bias  trying  to 
push  Colens  iv\>m  his  bishopric,  vile  acts  as  they  are,  have  yet 
a  certain  propriety.  For  as  respects  such  places,  it  is  tacitly 
understood  that  orthodoxy  is  the  condition  of  occupancy.  But 
the  utter  impertinence,  the  audacity  and  novelty  of  the  Secretary 
of  the  Interior's  action,  promotes  it  to  be  captain  of  all  opinions 
and  acts  that  affix  penalties  to  authorship.  A  poet,  acting  as  an 
exemplary  public  officer,  is  deprived  of  his  employment  as  a 
punishment  for  his  poems.  Poetry,  if  it  attempts  to  rise  above 
conventions  to  the  freedom  of  the  great  masters,  is  a  penal 
offence.  That  is  M".  Harlan's  position.  And  you  seem  to- 
think  this  a  trifle — the  "mere  loss  of  an  office" — not  con- 
nected with  intellectual  interests  or  the  rights  of  authors — not 
worth  making  a  stir  about.  Suppose  widening  from  a  solitary 
act  it  becomes  the  general  rule.  Tell  me  now  how  free  letters 
will  fare  when  authors  are  punished  for  freedom  !  Or  does  an 
act  only  become  censurable  when  it  becomes  general  ?  Do  you 
deal  with  the  thief  when  he  has  picked  one  pocket,  or  do  you 
wait  till  he  has  picked  fifty?  Suppose  this  infamous  invasion  of 
the  liberty  of  literature  had  been  made  on  the  person  of  Long- 
fellow. Mr.  Editor,  you  think  my  pamphlet  excessive — extrav- 
agant ;  but  in  such  a  case,  you  would  exhaust  the  capacities  of 
language  to  denounce  the  outrage  !  You  know  you  would  ! 
The  second  view  my  pamphlet  presents  is  this  : 


) 


'»S4 


IN  RE  WALT  WHITMAN. 


Here  is  Walt  Whitman — a  man  who  has  lived  a  brave,  simple, 
clean,  grand,  manly  life,  irradiated  with  all  good  works  and 
•offices  to  his  country  and  his  fellow-men — intellectual  service  to 
the  doctrines  of  liberty  and  democracy,  personal  service  to  slaves, 
prisoners,  the  erring,  the  sick,  the  outcast,  the  poor,  the  wounded 
and  dying  soldiers  of  the  land.  He  has  written  a  book,  wel- 
comed, as  you  know,  by  noble  scholars  on  both  sides  of  the  At- 
lantic ;  and  this,  for  ten  years,  has  made  every  squirt  and  scoun- 
drel on  the  press  fancy  he  had  a  right  to  insult  him.  Witness 
the  recent  editorial  in  the  Chicago  Republican.  Witness  the 
newspapers  and  literary  journals  since  1856,  spotted  with  squibs, 
pasquinades,  sneers,  lampoons,  ferocious  abuse,  libels.  The 
lying  jabber  of  the  boys,  drunkards  and  libidinous  persons  privi- 
leged to  control  many  of  the  public  prints,  has  passed  as  evidence 
•of  his  character;  the  ridiculous  opinions  of  callow  brains,  the  re- 
fraction of  filthy  hearts,  have  been  received  as  true  interpreta- 
tions of  his  volume.  All  this  is  notorious.  You  know  it,  I  sup- 
pose, as  well  as  I.  And  finally  after  the  years  of  defamation, 
-calumny,  private  affronts,  public  contumely,  my  pamphlet  refers 
to — after  the  social  isolation,  the  poverty,  the  adversity  which  an 
evil  reputation  thus  manufactured  for  a  man  and  following  him 
into  every  detail  of  his  life,  must  invol  /e — Mr.  James  Harlan, 
Secretary  of  the  Interior,  lifting  the  charge  of  autorial  obscenity 
into  the  most  signal  consequence,  puts  on  the  top-stone  of  out- 
rage by  expelling  him  from  office  with  this  brand  upon  his  name. 
The  press  spreads  the  injury.  It  was  telegraphed  from  Washing- 
ton to  the  Eastern  and  Western  papers.  It  was  made  the  sub- 
ject of  insulting  paragraphs  in  some  journals  and  of  extended 
and  actionable  abuse  in  others.  Now  all  this,  too,  you  seem  to 
consider  of  little  or  no  importance.  You  think  ten  years  of  in- 
jurious calumny  crowned  with  this  conspicuous  outrage,  offers  no 
"fit  occasion  for  such  an  apotheosis  of  the  victim."  I  under- 
take to  say  that  if  any  Chadband  plus  McSycophant  had  been 
Managing  Director  of  the  India  House  when  Charles  Lamb  was 
a  clerk  there,  and  had  expelled  the  gentle  Londoner  for  the  al- 
leged "indecency"  of  his  published  defc.ice  of  the  licentious 
j)lays  of  Vanbrugh  and  Wycherly,  there  would  have  been  a  hum- 


"THE  GOOD  GRAY  POET:"  SUPPLEMENTAL. 


simple, 
>rks  and 
ervice  to 
to  slaves, 
wounded 
jok,  wel- 
f  the  At- 
id  scoun- 

Witness 
tuess  the 
h  squibs, 

s.  The 
)ns  privi- 
evidence 
IS,  the  re- 
iterpreta- 
it,  I  sup- 
faniation, 
ilet  refers 
which  an 
ving  him 
I  Harlan, 
obscenity 
le  of  out- 
his  name. 
Wash  in  g- 

the  sub- 
extended 
u  seem  to 
ars  of  in- 
,  offers  no 

I  under- 
had  been 
Lamb  was 
"or  the  al- 
licentious 
;n  a  hum- 


»55 


ming  time  that  day  through  Temple  Bar  and  a',  around  St.  Paul's, 
and  literature  to  this  hour  would  be  in  commotion  about  it. 
And  if  Allan  Cunningham,  or  any  other  friend  of  Lamb,  had 
chosen  to  embalm  the  subject  in  a  pamphlet,  considering  the 
offence  as  a  culmination  of  the  malice  of  the  "scoundrel  re- 
viewers," as  De  Quincey  calls  them,  from  whom  ..ven  Lamb  suf- 
fered ;  treating  it  in  its  proper  relation  to  the  rights  and  uses  of 
letters;  extolling  the  delicate  brilliance  of  his  friend's  genius,  as 
I  have  the  grandeur  and  immensity  of  mine  ;  and  flinging  back 
upon  the  monkey  malignity  of  the  defamers  the  glowing  record 
of  those  virtues  which  cast  the  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or 
shore  on  Elia's  grave, — I  don't  believe  Coleridge  would  have 
thought  it  "  no  fit  occasion  for  such  an  apotheosis  of  the  victim," 
or  coldly  belittled  the  act  of  the  insolent  official  who  had  vio- 
lated every  propriety  of  the  administration  of  a  public  office,  and 
trampled  on  the  rights  of  thought  and  the  liberties  of  authors, 
that  he  might  punish  a  writer  for  his  writing. 

Pardon  my  frankness.  I  do  not  mean  to  be  rude,  but  I  can- 
not help  some  warmth  of  feeling  on  this  matter.  Here,  in  this 
city,  from  persons  of  the  highest  station,  from  the  bench,  from 
the  bar,  from  members  of  Congress,  from  private  citizens,  I  have 
heard  Mr.  Harlan's  act  spoken  of  only  with  amazement  and  utter 
condemnation.  It  has  been  the  same  everywhere.  When  I  was 
in  New  England  in  October,  no  person  with  whom  I  conversed 
on  this  mi  ^-jr  manifested  other  than  astonished  and  indignant 
feeling.  vVhen  in  Ticknor  &  Fields'  parlor,  I  mentioned  it  to 
a  gentleman,  one  of  your  personal  friends  and  of  your  own  im- 
mediatp  circle,  I  remember  how  he  changed  color  and  sat  down, 
like  one  incredulous  of  the  tale.  He  could  hardly  believe  that 
such  a  thing  had  been  done.  This  is  a  fair  specimen  of  the  just 
and  honorable  emotion  which  the  knowledge  of  this  act  has 
everywhere  excited.  I  cannot  therefore  but  feel  surprised  at 
your  treatment  of  it. 

Wh  t  is  thought  of  "Leaves  of  Grass"  is  of  comparatively 
little  moment.  To  you,  the  book  may  be  even  below  criticism. 
To  me,  it  is  one  of  those  great  works  which  only  the  brave  can 
undertake,  which   only  the   few  can  comprehend,  but  which, 


\ 


SB3Wmi'Uy  if  II  " 


} 


156  ly  RE  WALT  WHITMAN. 

nevertheless,  penetrate  nations  and  ages,  inform  them  with  their 
own  life  and  make  them  remembered.  But  whatever  its  rank, 
its  author  deserves  the  equal  treatment  due  to  every  writer  of  an 
honest  book,  and  any  wrong  done  to  him  in  his  autorial  char- 
acter concerns  every  true  member  of  the  literary  guild.  In  no 
sense  can  I  allow  this  to  be  a  matter  of  small  importance.  If 
you  put  it  on  personal  grounds,  let  me  remind  you  that  to  a  poor, 
unpopular  and  almost  proscribed  poet,  what  you  call  the  "  mere 
loss  of  an  office  "  might  be  of  the  utmost  worldly  consequence, 
involving  even  the  plunge  into  utter  ;ienury  or  want.  But  I 
scorn  to  rest  the  case  even  on  a  consideration  so  grave  as  this. 
Admitting  that  this  were  a  little  thing,  a  man,  high  in  place,  has 
wantonly  violated  the  great  principle  of  intellectual  liberty,  and 
the  violation  of  that  principle  can  never  be  a  little  thing.  The 
infraction  of  a  noble  doctrine  is  not  to  be  measured  by  the 
smallness  of  the  circumstance,  and  half  the  battles  of  liberty 
have  raged  around  events  trivial  but  for  their  connection  with 
some  great  cause.  If  this  Methodist  Secretary  had  expelled  a 
clerk  for  being  an  Episcopalian,  no  one  would  think  of  reducing 
it  to  the  character  of  an  ordinary  dismissal,  speak  of  it  as  the 
"  mere  loss  of  an  office,"  or  in  any  way  consider  it  of  slight  im- 
portance. It  would  be  deemed,  and  justly  deemed,  a  public 
violation  of  the  sacred  principle  of  religious  liberty.  The  right 
of  an  author  to  publish  an  honest  book  without  being  deprived 
of  his  bread,  is  at  least  of  equal  sanctity  with  the  right  of  a  man 
to  worship  free  of  penalty  at  an  Episcopalian  temple.  That 
right,  simple  and  commonplace  as  it  is,  has  been  bought  by  cen- 
turies of  agony  and  struggle,  by  the  toil  of  the  learned  and  the 
blood  of  the  brave.  Never  while  I  live,  if  I  can  help  it,  shall  it 
be  violated  in  the  person  of  the  humblest  man  or  woman  that 
holds  a  pen.  Never  shall  I  consider  its  violation  as  else  than  an 
outrage,  demanding  the  most  serious  and  general  public  attention 
and  the  most  signal  condemnation.  Not  one  word,  therefore, 
of  the  claim  you  deride,  do  I  abate.  I  say  to-day,  I  say  to-mor- 
row, I  shall  say  forever,  that  this  act  of  Mr.  James  Harlan — the 
disgraceful  expulsion  of  a  noble  author  from  the  employment 
which  gave  him  the  means  of  life,  solely  and  only  for  the  publi- 


I 


'THE  (.  WD  GRAY  POET:"  SUPPLEMENTAL. 


157 


cation  years  ago  of  a  volume  of  verse — is  a  violation  as  gross  and 
audacious  as  it  is  novel,  of  the  doctrine  of  liberty  which  it  is  the 
main  purpose  of  the  American  polity  to  enshrine  and  defend. 
As  such,  it  rises  to  the  dignity  of  a  public  concern.  As  such, 
undulled  by  apathy,  undaunted  by  ridicule,  again  I  commend  it 
to  every  one  who  guards  the  freedom  of  letters  and  the  liberty 
of  thought  throughout  the  civilized  world.  It  is  the  first  time  in 
America  that  an  author  has  been  punished  for  his  authorship :  as 
far  as  I  can  have  it  so,  it  shall  be  the  last. 


In  i88i,  T.  W.  Rolleston  sent  Walt  Whitman  his  translation  of  the 
Encheiridiovi  of  Epictetus.  In  the  front  of  the  small  book,  under  date  1888, 
Whitman  has  written  :  "  Have  had  this  little  volume  at  hand  or  in  my  hand 
often  all  these  years-  "ve -cad  '.  over  and  over  and  over."  The  following 
aie  a  few  of  the  nuir        -  p.-'Siages  strongly  marked  and  underlined  by  him : 


"  It  is  not  things  in        msel .e 
trouble  and  confuse  our  ni  ids." 


but  the  opinions  held  about  them,  which 


"  Wish  not  ever  to  seem  wise,  and  if  ever  you  shall  find  yourself  accounted 
to  be  somebody,  then  mistrust  yourself.  For  know  that  it  is  not  an  easy 
matter  to  make  a  choice  that  shall  agree  both  with  external  things  and  with 
nature,  but  it  must  needs  be  that  he  who  is  careful  of  the  one  shall  neglect 
the  other." 

"  In  going  about,  as  you  are  careful  not  to  step  upon  a  nail  or  twist  your 
foot,  even  so  be  careful  that  you  do  no  injury  to  your  own  essential  part. 
And  if  we  observe  this  we  shall  the  more  safely  undertake  whatever  we  hav» 
to  do." 

('58) 


WALT  WHITMAN. 


By  GABRIEL  SARRAZIN:    Trantlattd  from  thi  Frtneh  by  HARRISON  S. 

MORRIS. 


of  the 
te  1888, 
ny  hand 
Uowing 
by  him : 

1,  which 


counted 

an  easy 

nd  with 

neglect 

ist  your 
iai  part, 
we  have 


/ 


At  the  moment  when,  in  western  Europe,  the  educated  and* 
literary  classes  are  allowing  themselves  to   become  inoculated' 
with  the  subtle  poison  of  pessimism ;  when,  in  Russia,  a  nation 
of  so  grand  a  future,  the  Slav  spirit  gropes   in   the   midst  of 
Utopias  and  contradictions,  mingling  tendencies  toward  conquest 
and  supremacy  with  the  idea  of  a  mission  at  once  humanitarian 
and  mystical — at  the  self-same  moment  a  triumphant  voice  is 
raised  on  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic.     In  this  chant  of  a  last- 
ing and  almost  blinding  luminary,  no  hesitations,  no  despairs; 
the  present  and  the  past,  the  universe  and  man,  free  from  all  . 
concealment,  confront  with  a  serene  superiority  the  bitter  smile 
of  the  analyst.     There  is  no  need  for  us  any  longer  to  search  |  / 
for  ourselves,  because  we  have  found  ourselves;  and  from  tbi-  ' 
midst  of  its  period  of  development  one  nation  at  least  points  °. 
its  coming  puissance  reflected  in  the  mirror  of  the  future.     The 
man  who  thus  announces  himself — himself  and  his  race — brings- 
at  the  same  time  a  word  absolutely  new,  a  form  instinctively  au- 
dacious,   novel,    overstepping    all    literary    conventions.     He- 
creates  a  rhythm  of  his  own,  less  rigid  than  verse,  more  broken 
than  prose — a  rhythm  adapted  to  the  movement  of  his  emotion, 
hastened  as  it  hastens,  precipitated,  abated,  and  led  into  repose. 
At  times  he  will  utter  almost  an  Hebraic  chant,  quitted  anon  as 
he  enlarges  or  abandons  himself  to  the  theme.     But,  as  he  freely 
uses  the  forms  of  others  as  well  as  his  own,  the  habitual  employ^ 
ment  of  the  artifices  of  literary  writing  is,  to  him,  entirely  un- 
known.    If  he  makes  literature,  it  is,  openly  and  without  shame, 
as  an  author  ignorant  of  research  and  artistic  vainglory.     The.- 

('59) 


% 


Xj 


i6o 


IN  RE  WALT  WHITMAN. 


word  literateur,  in  the  sense  it  assumes  amoiigst  the  older  civiliza- 
tions, cannot  in  any  manner  be  applied  to  him.  His  writings 
come  forih  glowing  and  direct,  with  an  immediate  significance 
and  as  if  spoken.  As  those  ot  the  ancient  prophet  poets  his 
words  arc  addressed  to  the  assembled  people. 

The  mr.n  with  whose  biography  we  design  to  terminate  this 
study  {La  Renaissance  de  la  Poisie  Anglaise,  1 798-1 889)  is  a 
Yankee  named  Walt  Whitman.  Not  only  is  he  not  illiterate, 
but  he  has  read  all  that  we  have.  He  has  seen,  besides,  more 
than  we  have,  and  more  distinctly  ;  he  has  travelled  in  the 
Union,  and  his  poet's  eye  has  marvelled  at  the  thousand 
details  of  virgin  nature  and  a  young  civilization.  Lectures 
and  spectacles  have  been  but  a  leaven,  a  suggestion  ;  they  have 
only  stimulated  and  nourished  the  vast  syntliesis,  instinctive 
and  philosophic,  whose  germ  lay  in  his  original  mind.  It  is 
that  synthesis  of  the  Cosmos,  framework  and  substance  of  his  |. 
entire  work,  which  we  essay  to  outline  in  our  first  chapter.  The 
second  will  be  devoted  to. his  views  purely  American  and  patri- 
otic. The  third  will  give  an  idea  of  the  astonishing  freshness 
of  the  book,  and,  lastly,  the  fourth,  in  recounting  the  history  of 
this  masculine  life  and  personality  so  simply  epic,  will  bring 
into  view  conceptions  and  horizons  which,  resembling  in  no- 
wise those  we  are  familiar  with  in  Europe,  are  none  the  less 
large  and  comforting. 

I.-PANTHEISM. 

The  poetry  of  Walt  Whitman  proclaimed  at  the  outset  com- 
plete pantheism,  with  no  extenuation,  and  with  all  its  conse- 
quences (see  "Song  of  the  Universal").  At  first  there  was 
an  outcry.  Shelley  himself  had-  dreamed  of  sanctifying  evil — 
had  declared  it  the  necessary  brother  of  good  and  its  equal. 
One  may  perhaps  be  permitted  to  say  that  evil  envelopes  good 
as  the  fertilizer  encloses  and  nourishes  the  germ  of  the  flower ; 
but  to  place  the  pedestal  of  Satan  next  that  of  the  Divine — 
what  spirit  escaped  from  the  nether  regions  has  committed  that 
audacity  ?  And  worst  of  all,  most  incomprehensible  of  all,  the 
heart  of  the  miscreant  whence  springs  this  blasphemy  seems  to 


WALT  WIIITMAlf. 


l6l 


have  wings,  joyous,  light,  which  palpitate  in  ecstasy.  In  brief, 
and  with  the  conilition  that  one  possesses  an  idea  of  the  senti- 
ment of  the  sublime,  the  explanation  was  simple  enough,  and  to 
understand  it  one  had  but  to  regard  the  love  of  the  great  Yankee 
for  the  Cosmos — that  love  at  once  pious,  profound,  overflowing, 
ecstatic,  strong  as  an  intoxication  and  as  a  possession.  Neitheri 
in  the  dawn  of  civilizations  in  the  Orient,  tliat  region  of  mysticism,  | 
nor  amongst  the  most  exalted  Catholics  of  Spain  and  Italy,  has  a 
spirit  ever  more  profoundly  lost  itself  in  God  than  has  Walt  Whit- 
man's. For  him,  Nature  and  God  are  one.  God  is  the  universe, 
or,  to  speak  more  exactly,  the  mystery  at  once  visible  and  hidden 
in  the  universe.  Wholly  unlike  Carlyle,  who  has  been  thought 
to  possess  traits  of  resemblance  with  Walt  Whitman,  but  who, 
before  the  unknown  divinity,  could  only  prostrate  himself  and 
tremble  with  a  holy  terror,  Walt  Whitman,  in  his  confident  and 
lofty  piety,  is  the  direct  inheritor  of  the  great  Oriental  mystics, 
Bralima,  Proclus,  Abou  Said.  In  Europe  he  may  be  compared 
with  the  German  metaphysicians,  disciples  and  developers  of 
Spinoza ;  more  than  one  trait  unites  him  to  Herder,  to  Hegel,  to 
Schelling — above  all,  to  the  bizarre,  chaotic  and  sublime  Jean 
Paul.  From  these  to  him — Jean  Paul  apart,  and  noting 
that  Whitman  differs  from  Richter  by  a  total  lack  of  humor 
— there  is  still  all  the  distance  from  the  philosopher  to  the 
poet,  the  doctor  to  the  dervish :  more  candid  and  more  in- 
tense than  they,  the  Yankee  bard  abandons  himself  with 
ecstasy  mto  the  avlored  hands  of  the  Universal  Being.  Living 
in  happy  harmony  with  all  the  aspects  of  the  Cosmos,  even  the 
most  sombre,  he  exclaims  at  the  close  of  "  Leaves  of  Grass,"  his 
great  collection  of  poems  :  "  And  henceforth  I  will  go  celebrate 
anything  I  see  or  am,  .  .  .  and  deny  nothing."  And  then,  in 
effect,  he  says  :  God  being  in  all  things  and  everywhere,  how  can 
I  help  loving  Him  in  all  things  and  everywhere  ;  and  because  the 
unbeliever  dares  judge  of  Him  from  seeing  a  part  of  one  of  His 
faces,  should  the  believing  heart  follow  the  pitiful  example? 
Jacob  Boehm  held  evil  to  be  the  promoter  of  good — the  good  of 
strife  and  victory.     But  this  position  is  always  open  to  dispute, 

and  Walt  Whitman  never  disputes. 
II 


II 


i6j  ly  fiK   WALT   WIIITMAS. 

Let  us  o\vin  at  hnzunl  "  Leaves  of  Clrn.ss  "  and  (|uute  : 

"Swiftly  aiiiHc  niul  »|ir(nil  Aroiiixl  ine  the  pence  antl  knowlc(l|;c  lliat  pain  nil 

(lie  iirKiiiiirnl  of  the  enilh, 
An<l  I  know  llml  llic  hniul  of  tioil  it  the  promiiie  of  my  own, 
Ami  I  know  (hut  the  Hpirit  cif  (iod  in  ihc  limther  of  tny  own, 
Antl  llint  III!  the  men  ever  l)urn  arc  alto  my  liroilicri,  and   the  women  my 

sinlprs  and  lovcm, 
And  lliat  II  keUan  of  the  creation  ii  luve." 

"  I  Itclieve  a  leaf  of  smit  ii  nu  lexs  than  the  journey-work  of  the  Mar*, 
And  the  pismire  i»  equally  perfect,  and  a  (;rnin  of  sand,  and  tlie  cg(,'  of  the 
wren." 

"  I  think  I  could  turn  and  live  with  aninmU,  they  are  lo  placid  and  «elf> 
contain' d, 
I  stand  and  look  at  them  long  and  long. 

They  do  not  sweat  and  whine  nhuiit  their  condition, 

They  do  not  lie  nwakc  in  the  ilnrk  and  weep  for  their  sinv, 

They  do  not  make  me  sick  discussing  their  duty  to  (tod, 

Not  one  is  dissnlisficd,   not  one  is  demented  with  the  mania  of  owning 

things, 
Not  one  kneels  to  another  ,  ,  .**  . 

"  And  I  say  to  mankind.  Be  not  curious  about  Ood, 
For  I  who  am  curious  al)out  each  am  not  cuiious  about  God, 
(No  ar  ny  of  termi  can  say  how  much  I  nm  at  peace  about  God  and  about 
death.) 

I  hear  and  behold  God  in  every  object,  yet  underi^tand  God  not  in  the 

least. 
Nor  do  I  understand  who  there  can  be  more  wonderful  than  myself. 

Why  should  I  wish  to  see  God  better  than  this  day  ? 

I  see  something  of  God  each  hour  of  the  twenty-four,  and  each  moment 

theii, 
In  the  faces  of  men  and  women  I  see  God,  and  in  my  own  face  in  the 

glass, 
I  find  letters  from  God  dropt  in  the  street,  and  every  one  is  sign'd  by  God'i 

name. 
And  I  leave  them  where  they  are,  for  I  know  that  wheresoe'er  I  go, 
Others  will  punctually  come  for  ever  and  ever." 


: 


H 


le  women  my 


acid  and  iclf- 


,nia  of  owning 


lod  and  about 


ITALT  WHITMAN.  1 63 

••  Ah  more  than  any  prir«t  f )  «oul  we  loo  believe  In  God, 
Hut  will)  tl)c  tnyilery  of  (iutl  we  dare  not  dally."  ' 

«'  An  fur  me,  (Jorn,  itorniy,  nmid  ihcw  vehement  dnyi.)  1 

t  have  the  idea  of  all,  and  am  all  and  bc-lieve  in  all, 
I  believe  materialiim  in  true  and  ipiritualittm  i*  true,  I  reject  no  part." 

And  finally,  in  a  piece  particularly  sitrnificant,  which  has  bcerP 
reiuarlccd  by  all  readers  of  the  poet,  after  having  opposed  in  a 
violent  (itsliion  Ormiizd  to  Ahrinian,  they  giving,  in  two  long 
stanzas,  their  sentiments  and  the  dcvelopiucnls  of  their  rOles, 
the  first  whispers  the  burden  : 

*'  My  chniity  hu*  no  death — my  wiiidom  diei  not,  neither  early  nor  late,  and 
my  sweet  love — " 

and  the  secontl  the  reply  : 

"  Aloof,  dinHatinfiod,  ploliing  revolt,  comrade  of  CiiminaU,  .  .  .  Cfiual  with 
any,  rcid  txi  any,  nur  time  nur  cliange  thall  ever  change  me  ur  my 
words  " — 

until,  at  last,  they  are  reconciled  in  the  final  synthesis: 

"  Santa  Spirito,  breather,  life, 
Deyond  the  li(;ht,  li[;hter  than  li(;hl, 

Iteyond  the  fl;xme»  of  htll,  joyous,  jeajiing  easily  above  hell, 
Heyond  Paradise,  perfumed  solely  with  mine  own  perfume. 
Including  all  life  on  earth,  touching,  including  (jod,  including  Saviour  and 

Satan, 
Ethereal,  pervading  all,  (for  without  me  what  were  all  ?  what  were  God  ?) 
E»sence  of  forms,  life  of  the  real  identities,  permanent,  positive,  (namely 

the  unseen,) 
Life  of  the  great  round  world,  the  sun  and  stars,  and  of  man,  I,  the  general 

soul. 
Here  the  square  finishing,  the  solid,  T  the  most  solid, 
Breathe  my  breath  also  through  these  songs."* 

Surely,  I  repeat,  as  regards  thought  this  pantheism  is  not  new, 
and  wc  have  but  to  examine  it  a  little  closer  to  recognize  under 

*  See  still  other  passages  of  absolute  pantheism  :  that  which  pp.  46-47  begins 
with  "  What  blurt  is  this"— in  the  Soni,'  of  Myself— VkW^  read  to  section  2j; 
and  the  piece  entitled  All  is  Truth,  p.  361. 


II 


i64 


IN  RE  WALT  WHITMAN. 


the  mystic  tide  of  vjrds  the  theory  of  the  identity  of  contradic- 
tions announced  by  Hegel,  the  greatest  of  philosophers 
according  to  Walt  Whitman,  ("Specimen  Days,"  pp.  174-177.) 
Advocating  the  same  theory,  we  have  M.  Renan.  With 
Hegel  the  conception  appears  to  me  but  a  cold  light,  and  with 
M.  Renan  only  an  ignis  fatuus.  Likewise  with  Goethe  and  Spi- 
noza, I  find  little  enough  of  the  flame  :  the  second  pleases  himself 
with  deductive  demonstration,  and  the  first  with  a  plastic  marble, 
a  definitive  expansion  of  the  idea.  It  is  never  so  with  Walt 
Whitman.  He  is  like  the  old  prophets,  a  living  spirit  that  talks 
with  the  greatest  of  the  gods ;  an  independent  soul  who  does 
not  incline  to  the  idea  of  dissolving,  after  death,  in  the  universal. 
This  point  is  certainly  one  of  the  most  original  in  his  metaphys- 
ics. Instead  of  allowing  that  the  cosmic  sea  is  to  absorb  the 
drops  of  water  of  his  life,  and  that  his  soul  is  to  be  rendered  into 
the  general  soul,  the  Yankee  poet  defends  his  individuality.  Of 
a  truth  the  passages  wherein  he  indicates  his  personal  immortality 
are  sufficiently  obscure.  He  has  doubted  often,  he  owns  it  him- 
self,* and  his  affirmation  never  reaches  a  perfectly  clear  formula. 

•"  What  do  you  think  has  become  of  the  young  and  ohl  men  ? 
And  what  do  you  think  has  become  of  the  women  and  children  ? 

They  are  alive  and  well  somewhere, 

The  smallest  sprout  shows  there  is  really  no  death, 

And  if  ever  there  was  it  led  forward  life.  .  .  ." 

"  The  question,  O  me !  so  sad,  recurring — What  good  amid  these,  O  me, 

0  life  ! 

Answer. 

1  h.it  you  are  here — that  life  exists  and  identity, 

Th.it  the  powerful  play  goes  on,  and  you  may  contribute  a  verse," 

"  I  swear  I  think  now  that  every  thing  without  exception  has  an  eternal  soul  i 
The  trees  have,  rooted  in  the  ground !  the  weeds  of  the  sea  have !  the 
animals  * 

1  swear  I  think  there  is  nothing  but  immortality  !  " 
Immortality  of  all  or  of  the  individual  ?    Without  doubt  one 

* "  Leaves   of  Gr.iss,"    Of  the   Terrible  Doubt  of  Appearances,   p.   lol. 
;5ee  also.  Yet,  yet,  ye  Downcast  Hours,  p.  341. 


■V 


WALT  WHITMAN.  165 

would  be  justified  in  saying  that  the  affirmation  is  not  explicit ; 
but  such  as  it  is,  it  is  buttressed  with  tiie  idea  that  each  being 
carries  into  the  future  life  the  conscience  of  the  past  life,  and 
there  is  no  other  sense  to  give  to  the  word  identity  which  occurs 
constantly  throughout  "Leaves  of  Grass."  There  is  neither 
mystery  nor  anxiety  attendant  upon  him  as  he  goes  onward,  by 
way  of  love,  in  serene  hope. 

It  must  not  be  thought  that  his  definitive  optimism  is  free 
from  crises;  numerous  are  the  traces  of  meditative  sorrows,  of 
his  bitternesses  as  thinker  and  patriot.  He  knows  that  the 
ordinary  course  of  the  world  is  pitiable,  and  that  terrors  lie  in 
wait  for  the  solitary  muser.*  But  faith  supports  him  and  the 
pride  of  feeling,  with  all  other  beings,  his  brothers,  the  eternal 
manifestations  of  Eternal  Thought.  From  this  flows  that 
mighty  and  sacred  joy  which  laughs  through  the  whole  book,  joy 
such  as  one  imagines  of  some  antediluvian  colossus,  h-xshing  the 
resplendent  waves,  and  breathing  out  enormous  water-spouts  in. 
the  face  of  the  earliest  suns.  From  this  his  song,  so  to  speak, 
pre-Adamic  of  the  flesh  ;  his  worship  of  forms  and  of  colors ; 
his  appetite  for  sexual  embracemenls ;  his  adoration  of  the 
body  and  the  act  of  generation  i  When  all  is  full  of  the  Spirit, 
when  all  is  divine,  what  evil  is  there  in  the  fact  that  the  source 
of  life  lies  in  bubbling  passion  and  frenzy  !  Naturally  enough, 
the  whited  sepulchres  of  America  and  England  madly  cry : 
"  The  hideous  voice  of  rottenness  denounces  the  august  shameless- 
ness  of  Walt  Whitman.  Reflect :  an  echo  of  the  Phallic  cult 
fills  the  air;  Bacchus,  the  conqueror,  comes  anew  on  his  car 
surrounded  by  nymphs  and  fauns  and  bacchanals.  Hearken : 
again  an  appeal  for  the  naive  sensuality  of  primitive  civiliza- 
tions; the  old  rites  are  brought  forth  and  the  sacramental 
orgies  !  "  So  cry  in  denancc,  with  affront  upon  their  faces,  the 
fainting  depravities  and  secular  Sodoms !  Phariseeism  never 
pardons  the  poet.  A  Secretary  of  the  Interior,  Mr.  James 
Harlan,  peremptorily,   in   1865,  deprived  Walt  Whitman  of  a 

*See  /  Sit  unJ  Look  Out,  p.  215.     See  also  0/  i':e  Terrible  Doubt  of 
Appearances,  p.  loi,  and  Yet, yet, ye  Do^vncasl  Hours,  p.  341, 


I 


i66 


IN  RE   WALT  WHITMAN. 


modest  office  which  he  filled  in  the  Department  at  Washing- 
ton, because  he  "was  the  author  of  'Leaves  of  Grass.'  "  He 
met  with  many  discouragements  at  the  end  of  the  Secession 
War,  during  which  he  had  cared  for  the  wounded  with  an 
unparalleled  devotion,  and  bore  himself  like  a  veritable  hero 
of  humanity. 

If  his  pantheism  celebrates  the  flesh,  which  he  holds  as  part 
of  the  spirit — as  the  most  innocent  and  primordial  part — and  if 
he  proclaims  joy — the  drunkenness  of  the  world-f&te — lie  never- 
theless does  not  fail  to  love  and  to  tenderly  salute  endur- 
ance, now  put  to  torture,  now  fallen  into  the  lowest  depths.  I 
have  already  said,  and  it  cannot  be  too  often  repeated,  because 
it  is  the  key  to  the  book,  that  in  the  light  of  thought  all  things 
are  necessary,  because  divine — all,  even  vice  and  crime,  however 
inexplicable  this  last  may  seem.  Let  no  one  mistake  these 
words,  however :  there  is  no  more  impetuous  idealist  tlian  Whit- 
man, nor  a  more  indefatigable  preacher  of  truth,  of  good,  and  of 
beauty.  He  holds  that  the  evil  will  disappear,  and  before  the 
ecstatic  vision  of  the  perfect  and  radiant  future  raises  a  long  cry 
of  triumph.*  Yet  is  not  that  very  hope  a  dogma  of  the  dogmas? 
No,  we  cannot  judge  of  evil,  because  that  would  be  to  judge 
God,  and  how  can  the  lover  judge  that  which  he  loves?  Evil  is 
a  mystery,  perhaps  the  most  sacred  of  all  mysteries,  because  it  is 
the  least  comprehensible,  because  it  may  be  the  expiatory  victim 
offered  to  good,  the  holocaust  always  smoking  on  the  altar. 
Immense  is  the  pity  of  Whitman  for  the  det,racled  and  miserable, 
as  vast  and  tender  as  that  of  Shelley,  of  Hugo,  of  Tolstoi,  of 
Dostoievsky — great  spirits  who  bring  back  to  our  days  the  teach- 
ings of  the  purer  heroes  of  Buddhism  and  Christianity,  and  who, 
from  forth  tlieir  march  into  the  future,  turn  toward  the  past 
cycles  and  reacli  a  hand  to  Sakya-Mouni,  to  Jesus  of  Nazareth, 
to  Francis  of  Assissi,  to  Saint  Theresa,  to  Vincent  dt  Paul,  to 
F6nelon,  to  Saint  Jean  de   Dieu,   to  Jean  d'Avila.     Whether 


*  See   these  magnificent  pieces ;    The  Mystic    7'ru>npett-r,  p.   356 ;  As  I 
IVa/k  These  Broad  Majestic  Days,  p.  369 ;  So  Lon^  !  p.  380.     See  also  Roam- 
ing in  Thought,  Y>,  216,  , 


WALT   WHITMAN. 


167 


whole  peoples  in  distress,  or  the  crushed  and  broken  individual, 
are  concerned,  or  simply  the  ordinary  and  middling  humanity,  I 
do  not  know  any  amongst  all  tiiese  who  has  surpassed  in  char-  { 
ity,  in  pity,  in  dt  'otedness,  in  love,  him  who  gave  at  the  same 
time  his  words  and  his  actions,  and  while  caring  for  his  fellow- 
creatures,  dying  or  sick,  wrote  the  following  pieces  which  I  cite 
among  so  many  others  :  "  The  Base  of  All  Metaphysics,"  "  Re- 
corders Ages  Hence,"  "Calamus,"  "  Salut  au  Monde,"  "  Pio- 
neers! O  Pioneers!"  "Old  Ireland,"  "O  Star  of  France,  ' 
"To  Him  that  was  Crucified,"  "To  a  Common  Prostitute," 
"The  City  Dead  House."  This  last,  above  all,  is  poignant 
an'^  might  have  been  written  by  Dostoievsky. 

II.— THE   NEW  WORLD. 

Tills  system  of  metaphysics,  in  appearance  composite  yet  in- 
dissolubly  amalgamated,  which  unites  across  the  ages  elements 
the  most  hostile  and  most  remote,  binds  together  the  teachings 
of  Jesus  and  Spinoza,  brings  into  union  Brahmins  and  Encyclopae- 
dists, Lucretius  and  Fichte,  Darwin  and  Plato,  founds  upon  a 
single  solid  ground  ecstasy  and  science,  and,  if  one  accuses  it 
of  contradictions,  responds  haugtitily,  It  is  possible,"!  am  large, 
I  contain  multitudes"  ("Leaves  of  Grass,"  Song  0/  Myself ,  p. 
78) — this  system,  to  him  who  has  felt  and  created  it,  is  but  a 
watch-tower  erected  over  the  New  World.  It  is  a  world  of  activity, 
peopled  by  a  race  once  old  and  become  new  from  contact  with 
a  new  soil ;  a  race  invigorated  by  an  enormous  influx  of  blood  ,• 
a  race  of  which  the  muscular  force  (actually  incommensurable, 
but  too  often  hindered  by  the  intrigues  of  Yankee  politicians 
and  their  creatures)  buttressed  behind  this  unclean  front, 
founds,  overthrows,  pierces,  works,  invents  machines,  peo- 
ples deserts  and  throws  imnii^nse  iron  cities  on  tlie  shores  of 
rivers  and  lakes.  The  poet  aj. pears  anew.  He  extols  in  exact 
terms  the  famous  material  conquests  of  tlie  American  world. 
His  utterance  is  that  of  a  realist  who  has  himself  seen  and 
wrouglu  and  touched  with  his  fingers  the  details,  who  knows  tlie 
manipulations  and  technical  names.     As  for  tlie   metaphysical, 


'"iwffi* 


ggjjf^ 


>  mi  111  III  wi|iif«1iiili»[lwnigii 

I riMirtn.i  l^nmifiillii 


n 


i68 


ly  StE  WALT  WIIinfAN. 


scientific,  psyihologic  and  moral  accessions  of  Europe,  1  e  clnves 
only  to  adapt  and  utilize  them  lor  America.  In  short,  i>'  •''  not 
the  wore"  uf  the  poet  or  dreamer  merely,  but  of  the  man  oi  ,..*''/'' 
tical  and  UiVhanicr.l  action,  which  he  sends  forth. 

"Leaves  of  Grass,"  indeed,  is  not  jmrely  poetic,  at  least  \:\ 
the  sense  of  the  older  literatures.  It  is  useless  to  seek  here  the 
refinement  and  impeccable  virtuosity  of  a  Tennyson.  Walt 
Whitman  is  not  an  artist  ;  he  is  above  art.  Not  only  do  the 
words  of  his  verse  fail  of  being  the  most  choice,  but  he  laughs  at 
proportion  and  composition.  He  is  charged  with  affecting 
the  rude,  the  overcharged,  the  encumbered.  The  religious 
and  bai  baric  lyrism  which  Anglo-Saxon  poetry  possesses  in 
common  with  the  Bible  is  in  "Leaves  of  Grass"  interspersed 
with  a  multitude  of  prosaic  images,  infinity  of  detail  and  minute 
enumerations  of  all  points  of  view.  Our  Latin  genius  soberly 
prunes  down  inequalities  and  knows  nothing,  ordinarily, 
of  such  lawless  modes  of  expression.  It  takes  them  for  chaos, 
and  there  commits  the  gravest  of  error:>.  Without  wishing  to 
defend  exuberance  or  to  oppose  good  taste,  it  will  be  per- 
mitted me  to  say  that  this  last  should  only  dominate  writings 
which  aim  at  pure  art,  where  form  is  so  paramount  in,  im- 
portance as  to  relegate  substance  to  the  background.  Where 
these  larger  works  •'re  in  question,  however — works  wherein  all 
external  appearances  and  human  masse?  precipitate  themselves  ; 
where,  at  the  same  time,  battalions  of  sensations,  sentiments  and 
ideas  enter  the  breach  ;  where  science  and  morality  and  aesthetics 
are  fused— where  such  creations  are  concerned,  the  horizon 
widens  strangely.  There  are  no  other  rules  save  those  of  nobilitv 
and  sfrength  of  spirit,  and  these  suffice  amply  to  create  a  moit 
tmlooked-for  and  grandiose  aspect  of  beauty.  Though  the 
reader  may  encounter  what  is  difficult  and  distasteful,  it  will  not 
alter  the  easily  verifi'-d  fact  that,  f  "  author  has  sprinkled 
tlirotigh  his  work  a  throng  of  toucli.f;  \  first  sight  prosaic,  yet 
that  in  reality  these  touches  contribute  to  the  poetry  of  the  en- 
semhle.  Take  any  of  the  great  pieces  haphazard,  and  remove 
such  details  as  seem  superfluous;  you  will  perceive  immediately 
that  life  and  truth  have  vanished  from  the  picture,  and  that  it  is 


li 


WALT  WHIXMAN.  ,69. 

now  ti?v*rsed  only  by  great  and  monotonous  sweeps  of  con- 
dor v.>i^-fi.  (In  revenge — one  or  two  books  apart — you  can  strike 
Out  ali  or  nothing  from  our  naturalistic  romancers  and  re'M  er 
more  nor  less  will  remain,  because  in  Mieir  i»'odiictions  is  neither 
sentiment,  poetry,  pity,  nor  inoial  ronscience.)  For,  over- 
crowded and  disorderly  as  it  may  be,  if  emotion  and  thought 
animate  it,  a  work  will  always  be  of  perfect  beauty.  But  models 
fashioned  of  cinder  and  mud,  though  they  be  miracles  of  chisel- 
ling, will  always  remain  cinder  and  mud. 

Let  us,  then,  return  to  the  subject  of  the  chapter.  From  the 
special  point  of  view  we  have  assumed  it  is  difficult  to  make 
choice  among  the  "Leaves  of  Grass"  :  each  page  exhales  the 
odor  of  the  earth.  I  would  distinguish  particularly,  however, 
several  long  and  significant  pieces,  from  which  I  will  take  ex- 
tracts: "Song  of  the  Broad-Axe,"  "  Song  of  the  Exposition," 
"By  Blue  Ontario's  Shore,"  "Thou  Mother  with  thy  Equal 
Brood."  These  contain  the  outlook  of  contemporary  America 
and  a  vision  of  the  future  America,  as  well  of  that  America 
whence  the  ideal  and  heroic  humanity  must  be  evolved.  In 
Walt  Whitman,  as  in  all  the  true  and  great  poets,  the  simplest 
view  of  the  object  awakens  an  infinity  of  images  and  ideas. 
Poet  of  the  outside  world  as  well  as  of  the  soul,  he  does  not, 
however,  refrain  from  noting,  by  means  of  expressions  often  as 
simple  as  those  of  a  precise  conversation,  the  thousands  and 
thousands  of  appearances  which  take  his  eye.  He  evokes  cor- 
respondences and  re-establishes  all  the  links  in  a  chain  seen  only 
through  spiritual  eyes.  With  an  axe  for  touchstone  he  resusci- 
tates the  past,  paints  the  actual  hour,  creates  the  future,  be- 
cause he  has  seen  instantly  that  that  steel  instrument  plunges  and 
cuts  into  the  roots  of  the  tree  of  history — that  it  is  the  con- 
structor of  all  civilizations  past,  present,  and  to  come — and  the  fol- 
lowing is  what  gives  rise  to  the  list,  infinitely  extended,  of  actions 
which  compose  its  functions : 

"  We.ipon  shapely,  naked,  wan, 
Heail  from  the  mother's  bowels  drawn, 

Wooded  flesh  and  metal  Ixsne,  liml>  only  one  and  lip  only  one, 
Gray-blue  leaf  by  red-heat  grown,  helve  produced  from  a  little  seed  sown,. 


■w 


170 


IN  KE   WALT  WHITMAN. 


Resting  the  grass  amid  and  uj>on, 
To  be  lean'd  and  to  lean  on."* 


Then  oome  the  infinite  series  of  transformations  of  the  axe : 

"  The  log  at  the  wood-pile,  the  axe  supported  by  it, 
The  sylvan  hut,  the  vine  over  the  doorway,  the  space  clear'd  for  a  garden, 
The  irregular  tapping  of  rain  down  on  the  leaves  after  the  storm  is  luU'd, 
The  wailing  and  moaning  at  intervals,  the  thought  of  the  sea. 
The  thought  of  ships  struck  in  the  storm  and  put  on  their  beam  ends,  and 

the  cutting  away  of  masts. 
The  sentiment  of  the  huge  timbers  of  old-fashion'd  houses  and  barns, 
The  remember'd  print  or  narrative,  the  voyage  at  a  venture  of  men,  families, 

goods. 
The  disemb.irkalion,  the  founding  of  a  new  city. 
The  voyage  of  those  who  sought  a  New  England  and  found  it,  the  outset 

anywhere, 
The  settlements  of  the  Arkansas,  Colorado,  Ottawa,  Willamette, 
The  slow  progress,  the  scant  fare,  the  axe,  rifle,  saddle-bags ; 
The  beauty  of  all  adventurous  and  daring  persons, 

The  beauty  of  wood-boys  and  wood-men  with  their  clear  untrimm'd  faces. 
The  beauty  of  independence,  departure,  actions  that  rely  on  themselves. 
The  American  contempt  for  statutes  and  ceremonies,  the  boundless  im- 
patience of  restraint."! 

*  "  Leaves  of  Grass,"  Song  of  the  Broad  Axe,  p.  148 : 
"  Arme  belle,  nue,  pftle, 

Tfiie  tir^c  (les  entrailles  de  la  mire. 

Chair  de  bois,  os  de  m6tal,  d'un  seul  membre  et  d'une  seule  livre, 

Feuille  gris-bleu  faite  par  la  chaleur  rouge  manche  n6  d'une  petite  graine, 

Tu  reposes  dans  I'lierbe  et  sur  I'hf.rlie, 

Pour  t'appuyer  et  qu'on  s'appuie  sur  toi. 

f"  Leaves  of  Grass,"  Song  of  the  Broad  Axe, 'p.  \^^: 
*'  La  bftche  ts.  la  pile  de  bcrls,  et  la  hache  dessus, 
La  hutte  foresti^ve,  la  vigne  qui  ombrage  la  porte,  I'eniplacement  digagfi 

pour  »r  jirdin, 
La  chute  irr6giiii6re  kV  la  pluie  sur  les  feuilles,  I'orage  wne  fois  apais6, 
La  plain! c  et  le  gtmissement  par  intervalles,  la  pens6e  de  la  mer. 
La  pens^e  de  vaisseaux  frapjiis  dans  I'orage,  renversfes  sur  leurs  cOtis,  leurs 

mftis  r  .s6s, 
Le  sentiment  des  6nurmes  chai  pentes  des  maisons  et  des  granges  de  I'ancien 

temps. 


WALT  WHITMAir. 


irx 


It  is  useless  to  insist,  is  it  not  true  ?  You  know  as  well  as  I  do 
ithis  sort  of  imagination ;  and,  doubt  not,  in  turning  the  page 
together  we  may  be  deluged  now  with  one  part,  now  with  the 
■other,  to  the  confines  of  the  farthest  future.  And,  in  truth,  it 
is  in  the  future  that  this  "  Song  of  the  Broad-Axe  "  will  be  devel- 
oped. Only,  since  in  the  last  verses  cited  we  are  in  America,  let 
us  establish  ourselves  there  to  the  end  of  the  chapter. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  find  elsewhere  than  in  Walt  Whitman 
such  words  as  follow :  rude  and  democratic  as  they  appear,  they 
still  attest  a  spirit  if  not  new,  nevertheless  renewed  and  truly  free. 
To  recover  the  thread  of  their  origin  it  is  necessary  to  go  beyond 
the  Christian  era,  and  to  resurrect  certain  of  the  apostrophes  of 
the  Agora  and  the  Forum.  But  in  modern  Europe  all  the  in- 
vocations to  cities,  which  affect  the  form  of  poetry  or  of  oratory, 
"whether  they  pour  forth  in  imposing  periods  or  thunder  in  peals 
of  the  tribunal,  have  always,  even  the  most  convincing  of  them, 
an  indescribably  artificial  and  theatrical  air.  One  feeh  'hat  they 
strain  after  the  idea  tliey  would  express,  and  that  they  are  far 
from  arising  out  of  the  ambient  atmosphere  with  the  natural  ex- 
pansion and  simplicity  of  such  a  passage  as  this : 


"  A  great  city  is  that  which  has  the  greatest  men  and  women, 
If  it  be  a  few  ragged  huts  it  is  still  the  greatest  city  in  the  whole  world. 


icement  digagi 


nges  de  I'ancien 


L'imprim^  ou  le  r^cit  qu'on  se  rappelle,  le  voyage  &  I'aventure  des  hommes, 

des  families,  des  hiens, 
Le  d^barquement,  la  fondation  d'uiie  cit6  nouvelle, 
Le  voyage  de  ceux  qui  cherchArent  une  nouvelle  Angleterre  et  la  trouvdrent, 

le  ddbut  n'imporle  oti, 
Les  etablissements  de  I'Arkansas,  du  Colorado,  de  I'Ottawa,  du  Willamette, 
Le  progrds  lent,  la  niaigre  cliSre,  la  liache,  le  rifle,  le  bagage  de  selle, 
La  beaut*  de  tous  les  gens  hardis  et  aventureux, 
La  beaut6  ties  enfants  des  bois  et  des  hommes  des  bois,  avec  leurs  francs 

visages  incuites. 
La  beaut6  de  Tindipendance,  du  depart,  des  actions  qui  complent  sur  elles- 

mfimes, 
(Le  mipris  am6ricain  pour  les  statuts  et  c6r6monie3,  I'impatience  illimitie 

de  I'entrave." 


}        I 


f 


17a 


IN  RE   WALT  }y HITMAN. 


The  place  where  a  great  city  stands  is  not  liie  place  of  '^tretch'd  wharves, 

ducks,  manufactures,  deposits  of  produce  merely, 
Nor  the  place  of  ceaseless  salutes  of  new-comers  or  ihe  anchor-lifters  of  the 

departing, 
Nor  the  place  of  the  tallest  and  costliest  buildings  or  shops  selling  goods 

from  the  rest  of  the  earth, 
Nor  the  place  of  the  best  libraries  and  schools,  nor  the  place  where  money 

IS  plentiest, 
Nor  the  place  of  the  most  numerous  population. 

Where  the  city  stands  with  tiie  brawniest  breed  of  orators  and  l)ards. 
Where  the  city  stands  that  is  belov'd  by  these,  and  loves  them  in  return  and 

understands  them. 
Where  no  monuments  exist  to  heroes  but  in  the  common  words  and  deeds, 
Where  thrift  is  in  its  place,  and  prudence  is  in  its  place, 
Where  the  men  and  women  think  lightly  of  the  laws, 
Wher?  the  slave  ceases,  and  the  master  of  slaves  ceases. 
Where  the  populace  rise  at  once  against  the  never-ending  audacity  of  elected 

persons. 
Where  fierce  men  and  women  pour  forth  as  the  sea  ta  the  whistle  of  death 

pours  its  sweeping  and  unript  waves. 
Where   outside   authority  enters  always  after   the    precedence    of    inside 

authority, 
Where  the  citizen   is  always  the  head  and  ideal,  and  President,  Mayor, 

Governor  and  what  not,  are  agents  for  pay. 
Where  children  are  taught  to  be  laws  to  themselves,  and  to  depend  on  them- 
selves. 
Where  equanimity  is  ilhistrated  in  affairs, 
Where  speculations  on  the  soul  are  encouraged, 
Where  women  walk  in  public  processions  in  the  streets  the  samr  as  the 

men. 
Where  they  enter  the  public  assembly  and  take  places  thf;  same  as  the  men ; 
Where  the  city  of  the  faithfulest  friends  stands, 
Where  the  city  of  the  cleanliness  of  the  sexes  stands, 
Where  the  city  of  the  healthiest  fathers  stands, 
Wui'-  the  city  of  the  best-bodied  mothers  stands, 
There  the  great  city  stands."  * 


*"  Leaves  of  Grass,"  Song  of  thf  Broad-Axe,  pp.  152-153  : 

"  Une  grande  cit6  est  celle  qui  poss6de  les  plus  grands  hommes  et  les  plus 

grandes  femmes, 
Ne  ftkt-elle  que  de  quelques  grossi^res  huttes,  elle  serait  encore  la  plus 

grande  cil6  du  monde. 


.^- 


WALT  WHITMAN. 


»73 


rds  and  deeds. 


Walt  Whitman  would  not  be  the  vast  spirit  he  is,  did  he  not 
know  that  the  great  democratic  city  of  the  future  is  the  fruit  of 
the  present  and  of  the  past,  the  definitive  result  of  all  human  , 
labor;  if  he  did  not  bend,  with  a  respect  which  our  European  '• 


L'endruit  oii  se  drcsse  la  grande  cit6  n'est  point  I'endroit  oft  s'itendent  les 

quais,  les  docks,  les  manufactures,  ^iln|)les  dipOis  des  produits, 
Ni  rendroit  des  saluts  sans  fin  des  nouveaux  arrives  uu  des  partants  qui 

I6venl  I'nncre, 
Ni  I'endroit  des  plus  hauts  et  des  plus  pricieux  Edifices  ou  des  magasins  qui 

vendent  les  marchandises  du  reste  de  la  terre, 
Ni  I'endroit  des  l)ihlioth^<|ues  les  plus  completes  et  des  meilleures  icoles,  ni 

I'endroit  oi  I'argent  ahonde, 
Ni  I'endroit  de  la  population  la  plus  nombreuse. 
I.&  od  la  c\\.t  se  dresse,  avec  sa  g^n^ration  la  plus  lobuste  d'orateurs  et  de 

bardes, 
L&  oft  la  cit£  se  dresse  qu'ils  aiment  par  dessus  tout,  qui  paie  leur  amour 

de  retour  et  les  coinprend, 
Lft  oft  les  h^ros  n'ont  de  monuments  que  dans  les  propos  et  fails  publics, 
L&  oft  r^conomie  est  ft  sa  place,  et  la  prudence  ft  sa  place, 
Oft  les  hommes  et  les  femmes  n'ont  que  faire  des  lois, 
Oft  I'esclave  cesse,  et  le  maltre  de  I'esclave, 
Oft  le  populaire  se  live  d'un  bond  contre  I'audace  incessante  des  personnes 

6lues, 
Oft  des  hommes  et  des  femmes  farouches  se  ripandent  comme  au  sifflet  de 

la  niort  la  mer  r6pand  ses  vagues;  d'un  seul  bloc  qui  balaient  tout. 
Oft  I'autoriti  extirieure  passe  toujour*  apr6s  I'auloriti  intirieure. 
Oft  le  citoyeii  est  toujours  la  tCte  et  I'idial,  et  oft  le  President,  le  Maire,  le 

Gouverneur,  et  je  ne  sais  quoi  ne  sf>nt  que  des  agents  ralariis. 
Oft  Ton  apprend  aux  enfants  ft  6tre  leurs  lois  ft  eux  m£mes  et  ft  compter  sur 

soi, 
Oft,  dans  les  affaires,  on  fait  preuve  d'6galit6  d'ftme, 
Ou  Ton  encourage  les  speculations  sur  I'ftme, 
Ou,  dans  les  processions  publiques,  les  femmes  marchent  les  6gales  des 

hommes, 
Oft  elles  entrent  dans  I'assemblie  publique,  et,  les  igales  des  hommes,  y 

prenncnt  place ; 

Lft  oft  se  dresse  la  cit6  des  plus  fidfiles  amis, 
Lft  oft  se  dresse  la  cit6  de  la  propret6  des  sexes, 
Lft  oft  se  dresse  la  cit6  des  pires  au  beau  sang, 
Lft  oft  se  dresse  la  cit6  des  mires  au  beau  corps, 
Lft  se  dresse  la  grande  cit6." 


1^4  IN  RE   WALT  WHITMAN. 

democrats  might  well  emulate,  before  the  Titanic  efTort  with 
which  it  is  compacted  cycle  by  cycle,  with  a  strength  never 
slackened  by  lassitude,  by  the  arms  of  anterior  generations  :  an 
effort  which  has  even  yet  only  vanquished  a  moiety,  and  will  one 
day  scale  the  heavens : 

"  Sail,  sail  thy  best,  ship  of  Democracy, 
Of  value  is  thy  freight,  'tis  not  the  I'resent  only. 
The  Past  is  also  stored  in  thee, 
Thou  holdest  nut  the  venture  of  thyself  alone,  not  of  the  Western  continent 

alone, 
Earth's  risumi  entire  floats  on  thy  keel  O  ship,  is  steadied  by  thy  spars, 
With  thee  Time  voyages  in  trust,  the  antecedent  nations  sink  or  swim  with 

thee, 
With  all  their  ancient  struggles,  martyrs,  heroes,  epics,  wars,  thou  bear'st  the 

other  continents, 
Theirs,  theirs  as  much  as  thine,  the  destination-port  triumphant; 
Steer  then  with  good  strong  hand  and  wary  eye  O  helmsman,  thou  carriest 

great  companions, 
Venerable  priestly  Asia  sails  this  day  with  thee. 
And  royal  feudal  Europe  sails  with  thee."* 

And  where  does  this  vessel  go  ?    Toward  the  shores  of  the 
West — there,  where  the  strife  with  antagonists  such  as  the  old 


*  "  Leaves  of  Grass,"  Thou  Mother  with  Thy  Equal  Brood,  p.  348  : 
"  Vogue,  vogue  &  pleines  voiles,  vaisseau  de  la  Dimocratie, 
Tu  poites  un  pricieux  chargement,  ce  n'est  pas  le  I'risent  seul, 
Le  Pass£  aussi  est  ton  fret, 
Tu  ne  contiens  pas  que  ta  pacotille  personnelle,  ni  que  celle  du  continctit 

de  rOuest, 
Sur  ta  quille,  0  vaisseau,  flotte  un  risumi  de  la  terre,  et  tes  m&ts  le  main- 

tiennent, 
Avec  toi  le  Temps  voyage  en  confiance,  avec  toi  plongent  ou  nagent  les 

nations  antirieures, 
Avec  toutes  leurs  anciennes  luttes,  martyrs,  hiros,  6pop6es,  guerres,  tu  portes 

les  autres  continents, 
Oui,  la  fortune  des  autre  autant  que  celle  du  tien,  le  port  de  destination  tri- 

omphant ; 
Gouverne  d'une  main  solide  et  d'un  oeil   avisi,  0  timonier,  tu  portes  de 

grands  compagnons. 
La  v6n6rable  Asie  sacerdotale  fait  voile  en  ce  jour  avec  toi, 
Avec  toi  fait  voile  la  royale  Europe  fSodale." 


^ 


WALT   WHITMAN. 


175 


rn  continent 


u  bear'st  the 


hou  earnest 


landlords  of  the  ancient  world  no  longer  exists  ;  wiiere  not  only 
the  modern  brain  can  conceive  its  thoughts  in  liberty,  but  where 
the  modern  arm  finds  itself  freed  from  the  old  prejudices  of 
European  life;  where  action  is  truly  the  sister  of  dreams;  and 
where,  under  imposing  palaces  of  glass,  marvels  of  industrial, 
workmanship  lift  themselves  daringly  toward  the  skies : 

"  Around  a  palace,  loftier,  fairer,  ampler  than  any  yet, 
Earth's  nioiiern  wonder,  history's  seven  outstripping,  • 

High  rising  tier  on  tier  with  glass  and  iron  facades. 
Gladdening  the  sun  and  sky,  enhued  in  cheerfuicst  hues. 
Bronze,  lilac,  robin's-egg,  marine  and  crimson. 
Over  whose  golden  root  shall  flaunt,  beneath  thy  banner  Freedom, 
The  banners  of  the  States  and  Hags  of  every  land, 

A  brood  of  lofty,  fair,  but  lesser  palaces  shall  cluster 

Not  only  all  the  world  of  works,  trade,  products, 

But  all  the  workmen  of  the  world  here  to  be  represented."* 

Here  follows  an  enumeration  of  the  splendors  of  human  genius- 
in  their  apogee.     In  the  course  of  his  work  Walt  Whitman  re- 
iterates constantly,  and  in  striking  r6sum6s,  the  glorious  synihesis- 
of  the  future  of  humanity.     Among  these  diverse  concentrations 
of  light  separated  by  commas,  we  prefer  the  following : 


"  Thee  in  thy  future, 
Thee  in  thy  only  permanent  life,  career,  thy  own  unloosen'd  mind,  thy 
soaring  spirit, 


*"  Leaves  of  Grass,"  Song  of  the  Exposition,  p.  160: 

"  Autour  d'un  palais  plus  61evi,  plus  beau,  plus  ample  qu'aucun  encore, 

Merveille  de  la  terre  moderne,  surpassant  les  sept  merveilles  du  monde, 

Elan^ant,  6iage  sur  6tage,  ses  facades  de  veire  et  de  fer, 

Rijouissant  le  soleil  et  le  ciel,  rayonnant  des  couleurs  les  plus  gaies, 

Bronze,  lilas,  oeuf  de  rouge-gorge,  marine,  et  cramoisi, 

Au-dessus  du  toit  dor6  durjuel  flotteront,  sous  ta  bnnni&re,  Liberid, 

Les  banni^res  des  £tats  et  les  drapeaux  de  tous  les  pays, 

Une   couv^e   de   liauts,  de  beaux,  et  cependnnt   de   moindres   palais  se- 
groupera. 

Non  seulenient  le  monde  des  oeuvres,  du  commerce,  des  produits, 

Mais  tous  les  ouvriers  du  monde  y  seront  repr6seni6s." 


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33  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

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/iV  7?^  TT^ZT*  WHITMAN. 


Thee  as  another  equally  needed  sun,  radiant,  ablaze,  swift-moving,  fructify- 
ing all. 
Thee  risen  in  potent  chctfulness  and  joy,  in  endless  great  hilarity, 
Scattering  for  good  the  cloud  that  hung  so  long,  that  weigh'd  so  long  upon 

the  mind  of  man, 
The  doubt,  suspicion,  dread,  of  gradual,  certain  decadence  of  man; 
Thee  in  thy  larger,  saner  brood  of  female,  male — thee  in  thy  athletes, 

moral,  spiritual.  South,  North,  West,  East, 
(To  thy  immortal  breasts,  Mother  of  All,  thy  every  daughter,  son,  endear'd 

alike,  forever  equal,) 
Thee  in  thy  own  musicians,  singers,  artists,  unborn  yet,  but  certain. 
Thee  in  thy  moral  wealth  and  civilization,  (until  which  thy  proudest  material 

civilization  must  remain  in  vain,) 
Thee  in  thy  all-supplying,  all-enclosing  worship — thee  in  no  single  bible, 

saviour,  merely, 
Thy  saviours  countless,  latent  within  thyself,  thy  bibles  incessant  within 

thyself,  equal  to  any,  divine  as  any, 
(Thy  soaring  course  thee  formulating,  not  in  thy  two  great  wars,  nor  in  thy 

century's  visible  growth. 
But  far  more  in  these  leaves  and  chants,  thy  chants,  great  Mother!) 
Thee  in  an  education  grown  of  thee,  in  teachers,  studies,  students,  born  of 

thee. 
Thee  in  thy  democratic  ffites  en-masse,  thy  high  original  festivals,  operas, 

lecturers,  preachers, 
Thee  in  thy  ultimata,  (the  preparations  only  now  completed,  the  edifice  on 

sure  foundations  tied,) 
Thee  in  thy  pinnacles,  intellect,  thought,  thy  topmost  rational  joys,  thy  love 

and  godlike  aspiration, 
In  thy  resplendent  coming  literati,  thy  full  lung'd  orators,  thy  sacerdotal 

bards,  kosmic  savans. 
These !  these  in  thee,  (certain  to  come,)  to-day  I  prophesy."* 

Here  the  entire  circle  is  run.     As   we  have  seen   the  poet 
gather  and  concentrate  into  his  large  utterance  all  metaphysics, 

*"  Leaves  of  Grass,"  Thou  Mother  with  Thy  Equal  Biood,  pp.  349-350: 
"  Cast  toi  dans  ton  futur, 
Toi,  dans  ta  vie  permanente,  dans  ta  carridre,  ton  esprit  libre  d'entraves,  au 

vol  sublime, 
Toi  comme  un  autre  et  n6cessaire  soleil,  radiant,  en  flammes,  \  la  rapide 

lumifire  f6condante, 
Toi  mont6e  i  I'apogie  de  la  gaiei6  et  de  la  joie  dans  la  grande  hilarity 
sans  fin. 


)ving,  fructify. 


son,  endear'd 


WALT   WHITMAN. 


177 


SO,  likewise,  has  he  succeeded  in  enclosing  herein  the  many- 
colored  throngs  that  attend  the  baiting  places  of  the  social  march. 
About  his  race,  as  center,  he  groups  all  the  actions,  and  all  the 
speculations  of  Europe;  and  it  seems  eminently  natural  that  the 
most  penetrating  view  of  the  future  should  come  to  us  from  one 
of  the  sons  of  the  youngest,  the  most  hardy,  and  the  most  eman- 
cipated of  civilizations.  Over  there  the  blood  is  pure  and  strong 
and  the  earth  is  virgin  :  it  is  there,  and  in  the  Oceanic  colonies 


Dissipant  pour  notre  bien  le  nuage  qui  pendant  si  longtemps  pesa  sur  I'esprit 

de  rhomnie, 
Le  doute,  le  soupgon,  la  crainte  d'une  graduelle  et  certaine  decadence  de 

I'homme ; 
Toi  dans  ta  plus  grande  et  plus  saine  prog6niture  d'hommes  et  de  femmes, 

— toi  dans  tes  athlSles,  moraux,  spirituels,  au  Sud,  au  Nord,  i  I'Ouest, 

it.  I'Est, 
(A  tes  seins  immortels,  6  MSre  de  Tous,  chaque  fille,  et  chaque  fils  dgale- 

nient  cher,  et  I'un  pour  toujours  I'^gal  de  I'autre) 
Toi  dans  tes  musiciens,  tes  chanteurs,  tes  artistes,  encore  &  nattre,  mais 

certains, 
Toi  dans  ton  opulence  morale  et  ta  civilisation  morale  (jusque-li  ta  plus 

orgueilleuse  civilisation  mat6rielle  est  en  vain), 
Toi  dans  ion  culte  qui  suppl6e  tout,  enferme  tout, — toi,  non  dans  une  seule 

bible,  un  seul  sauveur. 
Car  tes  sauveurs  sont  innombrables,  en  toi  latents,  et  en  toi  tes  bibles  inces- 

santes,  egaux  i  tous  autres  sauveurs  et  bibles,  ci  -li.ins, 
(Toi  formulant  ta  course  audacieuse,  non  dans  tes  deux  grandes  guerras, 

non  dans  la  croissance  visible  de  ton  si^cle, 
Mais  bien  plut6t  dans  ces  feuilles  et  chants-ci,  tes  chants,  grande  Mfire!) 
Toi  dans  une  Education  n6e  de  toi,  dans  tes  maltres,  6tudes,  ^tudiants,  n6s 

de  toi, 
Toi  dans  tes  fStes  d^mocratiques  en  masse,  dans  tes  grands  festivals  orig- 

inaux,  operas,  conf6ienciers,  pr6dicateurs, 
Toi  dans  tes  ultimata  (c'est  h.  peine  si  les  preparations  sont  achev6es,  I'ddi- 

fice  assujetti  sur  des  fondaiions  sflres), 
Toi  dans  tes  faltes,  intellect,  pens6e,  dans  tes  joies  rationnelles  k  la  cime, 

ton  amour  et  ton  aspiration  divines, 
Dans  tes  resplendissants  litterateurs   ^  venir,  tes  orateurs  aux   puissants 

poumons,  tes  bardes  sacerdotaux,  tes  savants  cosmiques, 
Ces  choses !  c'est  ces  choses  en  toi  (certaines  de  naltre)  qu'aujourd'hui  je 

proph6lise." 

12 


t 


178 


JN  RE   WALT   WHITMAN. 


of  England,  before  we  are  ourselves  delivered — should  that  de- 
liverance ever  arrive — that  the  ideal  Democracy  will  attain,  de- 
gree by  degree,  its  splendid  realization,  and,  crowned  supreme, 
come  to  wreathe  the  brow  of  humanity. 

III.— LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

This  chapter  will  be  composed  simply  of  three  or  four  quota- 
tions, because  we  cannot  find  a  better  means  of  illustrating  the 
scope  of  Walt  Whitman's  work,  and  of  bringing  into  relief  one 
of  hjs  most  natural  characteristics.  Leaving  to  our  quoted  ex- 
amples the  duty  of  more  fully  indicating  this,  we  may  still  express 
it  in  a  word  :  there  is  in  "  Leaves  of  Grass  "  a  freshness  almost 
physical,  and  from  one  end  to  the  other  the  reader  breathes  that 
odor  of  open  air  and  earth,  wholesome  and  refreshing,  such  as 
overtakes  and  invigorates  one  who  has  long  been  shut  within  the 
walls  of  the  city  and  at  last  goes  forth  into  the  ample  fields. 
For  example : 


"  Others  may  praise  what  they  like ; 
But  I,  from  the  banks  of  the  running  Missouri,  praise  nothing  in  art  or 

aught  else, 
Till  it  has  well  inhaled  the  atmosphere  of  this  river,  also  the  western 

prairie-scent, 
And  exudes  it  all  again."* 

Again : 

"  As  a  strong  bird  on  pinions  free, 
Joyous,  the  amplest  spaces  heavenward  cleaving. 
Such  be  the  thought  I'd  think  of  thee  America, 
Such  be  the  recitative  I'd  bring  for  thee. 


*"  Leaves  of  Grass,"  Others  May  Praise  What  They  Like,  p.  304: 

"  Que  d'autres  louent  ce  qu'i'.s  veulent ; 
Moi,  des  rives  du  Missouri,  je  ne  louerai  rien  en  art  ou  autre  chose 
Qui  n'ait  inhale  I'atmosphdre  de  ce  fleuve,  ainsi  que  la  senteur  de  la  prairie 

de  I'ouest,  ■• 

Et  ne  les  ait  exsudies." 


WALT  WHITMAN. 


179. 


The  conceits  of  the  poets  of  other  lands  I'd  bring  thee  not, 

Nor  the  compliments  that  have  served  their  turn  so  long, 

Nor  rhyme,  nor  the  classics,  nor  perfume  o("  foreign  court  or  indoor  library ; 

But  ^n  odor  I'd  bring  as  from  forests  of  i)ine  in  Maine,  or  breath  of  an  Il- 
linois prairie. 

With  open  airs  of  Virginia  or  Georgia  or  Tennessee,  or  from  Texas  uplands; 
or  Florida's  glades. 

Or  the  Saguenay's  black  stream,  or  the  wide  blue  spread  of  Huron, 

With  presentment  of  Yellowstone's  scenes,  or  Vosemite, 

And  murmuring  under,  pervading  all,  I'd  bring  the  rustling  sea-sound. 

That  endlessly  sounds  from  the  two  Great  Seas  of  the  world."  * 

f 

Always  in  the  same  strain  : 


"  By  broad  Potomac's  shore,  again  old  tongue, 
(Still  uttering,  still  ejaculating,  canst  never  cease  this  babble  ?) 
Again  old  heart  so  gay,  again   to  you,  your  sense,  the  full  flush  spring  re- 
turning. 
Again  the  freshness  and  the  odors,  again  Virginia's  summer  sky,  pellucid 

blue  and  silver. 
Again  the  forenoon  purple  of  the  hills, 


*  "  Leaves  of  Grass,"  TAou  Mother  with  Thy  Equal  Brood,  p.  347 : 
."  Comme  un  grand  oiseau  aux  ailes  lihres, 

Joyeux,  fendant  les  larges  espaces  du  ciel, 

Tel  serait  le  penser  que  je  voudrais  penser  de  foi,  6  An6rique, 

Tel  serait  le  r6citatif  que  je  voudrais  t'apporter. 

Je  ne  t'apporte  point  les  affectations  des  pontes  des  autres  terres, 

Ni  les  compliments  qui  ont  fait  I'affaire  si  longtemps, 

Ni  la  rime,  ni  les  classiques,  ni  le  parfum  des  cours  6trangfires  et  des  bibli- 

cth^ques ; 
Mais  une  odeur  semblable  ^  celle  des  forfits  de  pins  du  Maine,  I'haleine  de 

la  prairie  de  Tlllinois, 
Le  pie"-  i  air  de  la  Virginie,  de  la  G^orgie  ou  du  Tennessee,  ou  des  plateaux 

du  Texas,  ou  des  clairiSres  de  Floride, 
Le  noir  courant  du  Saguenay,  ou  la  large  6tendue  bleue  de  I'Huron, 
Les  scenes  du  Yellowstone,  o«  du  Yosemite, 
Et  murmurant  au-dessous,  p6n6trant  tout,  je  t'apporte  le  son  bruissant  de  la. 

mer, 
Le  son  qui  sonne  6ternellement  des  deux  Grandes  Mers  du  monde." 


i8o 


IN  RE   WAIT   WHITMAN. 


Again  the  deathless  grass,  so  noiseless  soft  and  green, 
Again  the  blood-red  roses  blooming. 

Perfume  this  book  of  mine  O  blood-red  roses  ! 

Lave  subtly  with  your  waters  every  line  I'otomac ! 

Give  me  of  you  O  spring,  before  I  close,  to  put  between  its  pages  I 

O  forenoon  purple  of  the  hills,  before  I  close,  of  you ! 

O  deathless  grass,  of  you  1 "  * 

In  the  same  strain  again,  we  extract  from  the  third  part  of  the 
section  entitled  "  Calamus"  these  delicious  lines: 

■"  Scented  herbage  of  my  breast, 
Leaves  from  you  I  glean,  1  write,  to  be  perused  best  afterwards, 
Tomb-leaves,  body-leaves  growing  up  above  me  above  death. 
Perennial  roots,  tall  leaves,  C)  the  winter  shall  not  freeze  you  delicate  leaves. 
Every  year  shall  you  bloom  again,  out  from  where  you   retired  you  shall 

emeige  again ; 
■O  I  do  not  know  whether  many  passing  by  will  discover  you  or  inhale  your 

faint  odoi,  but  I  believe  a  few  will; 
O  slender  leaves !  O  blossoms  of  my  blood !  I  permit  you  to  tell  in  your 

own  way  of  the  heart  that  is  under  you."f 

*"  Leaves  of  Grnss,"  By  Broad  Potomac's  S/iorf,  p.  366: 
"  Pr6s  du  bord  du  large  Potomac,  encore,  vieille  langue, 
(Toujours  prof6rant,  toujours  ^mettant  des  paroles,  ne  cesseras-tu  jamais  ce 

babillage?) 
Encore,  vieux  cceur  si  gai,  vous  aurez  encore,  voire  sens  aura  le  plein  6clat 

du  printemps  qui  revient. 
Encore  la  fraicheur  et  les  odeurs,  encore  le  ciel  d'6t6  de  la  Virginie,  au  bleu 

transparent  et  d'argent. 
Encore  la  poupre  matinale  des  collines, 
Encore  I'herbe  immortelle,  si  silencieusement  douce  et  verte. 
Encore  les  roses  en  fleur,  rouge  comme  du  sang. 

Parfumez  ce  mien  livre,  6  roses  rouges  comme  du  sang ! 
Potomac,  baignez-cn  d61icatement  chaque  ligne  avec  vos  eaux ! 
Donnez-moi  de  vous,  6  printemps,  avant  que  je  ferme,  pour  mettre  entre  ses 

pages ! 
O  pourpre  matinale  des  collines,  avant  que  je  ferme,  donnez-moi  de  vous ! 
Et  vous,  6  immortelle  herbe,  de  vous !  " 

f  "  Leaves  of  Grass,"  Scented  Herbage  of  My  Breast,  p.  96  : 
"Odorant  herbage  de  ma  poitrine 


b 


'» 


r'f 


ll 


WALT  WHITMAN. 
And  lastly  the  "  Warble  for  Lilac-Time;  " 


i8i 


n  its  pages  I 


third  part  of  the 
-s: 

erwards, 

death, 

;  you  delicate  leaves, 

3U  retired  you  shall 

:r  you  or  inhale  your 

you  to  tell  in  your 


cesseras-tu  jamais  ce 
IS  aura  le  plein  6clat 
e  la  Virginie,  au  bleu 

verte, 


OS  eaux ! 

pour  mettre  entre  ses 

onnez-moi  de  vous ! 
96: 


"  Warble  nie  now  for  joy  of  lilac-lime,  (returning  in  reminiscence,) 
Sort  mc  C)  tongue  and  lips  for  Nature's  sake,  souvenirs  of  earliest  summer. 
Gather  the  welcome  signs,  (as  children  with  pebbles  or  stringing  shells,) 
Put  in  April  and  May,  the  hylas  croaking  in  the  ponds,  the  elastic  air, 
Uees,  butterflies,  the  sparrow  with  its  simple  notes, 
blue-bird  and  darting  swallow,  nor  forget  the  high-hole  Hashing  his  golden 

wings, 
The  tranijuil  sunny  haze,  the  clinging  smoke,  the  vapor. 
Shimmer  of  waters  with  fish  in  them,  the  cerulean  above. 
All  that  is  jocund  and  sparkling,  the  brooks  running, 
The  ma]ile  woods,  the  crisp  I-'ebruary  days  and  the  sugar-making, 
The  robin  where  he  hops,  bright-eyed,  brown-breasted. 
With  musical  clear  call  at  sunrise,  and  again  at  sunset. 
Or  flitting  among  the  trees  of  the  apple-orchard,  building  the  nest  of  his^ 

mate. 
The  melted  snow  of    March,  the  willow  sending  forth  its  yellow-green 

sjirouts, 
For  spring-time  is  here !  the  summer  is  here  I  and  what  is  this  in  it  and 

from  It  ? 
Thou,  soul,  unloosen'd — the  restlessness  after  I  know  not  what; 
Come,  let  us  lag  here  no  longer,  let  us  be  up  and  away  I 
O  if  one  could  but  fly  like  a  bird  ! 
O  to  escape,  to  sail  forth  as  in  a  ship ! 

To  glide  with  thee  O  soul,  o'er  all,  in  all,  as  a  ship  o'er  the  waters  ; 
Gathering  these  hints,  the  preludes,  the  blue  sky,  the  grass,  the  inorning 

drops  of  dew. 
The  lilac-scent,  the  bu'^hes  with  dark  green  heart-shaped  leaves, 


Je  vous  cueille  ?a  et  li  des  feuilles,  ce  que  j'6cris  sera  mieux  6tudi6  aprSs 

moi, 
Feui'.les  de  la  tombe,  feuilles  de  mon  corps  qui  croltront  sur  moi,  au-dessus 

de  ma  mort, 
Racines  6ternelles,  feuilles  hautes,  oh  I  I'hiver  ne  vous  gilera  pas,  d61icates 

feuilles, 
Chaque  ann6e  vous  rep<~usserez,  et  de  votre  retraite  r66mergerez, 
Je  ne  sais  si  de  nombreux  passants  vous  dicouvriront  et  respireront  votre 

faible  odeur,  mais  quelques-uns  le  feront, 
O  feuilles  ilanc6es !  6  fleurs  de  mon  sang  !  vous  parlerez  i  votre  fa^on  du 

coeur  qui  sera  sous  vous." 


i 


1/ 

'I- ' 


i8a 


m  RE   WALT  WHITMAN. 


Wood- violets,  the  little  delicate  pale  blof"is  called  innocence, 
Samplts  and  sorts  not.  for  themselves  alone,  but  for  their  atmosphere, 
To  grace  the  bush  I  love — to  sing  with  the  birds, 
A  warble  for  joy  of  lilac-time,  returning  in  reminiscence."  * 


*  '♦  Leaves  of  Grass,"  Warblt  for  Lilac-  Time,  pp.  293-294 : 
"Gazouillez-nioi  maintenant  pour  la  joie  du  temps  du  lilas,  (de  retour  en  xh- 

miniscence) 
R6unissez-moi,  0  ma  langue  et  mes  Idvres,  pour  1' Amour  de  la  Nature,  des 

souvenirs  du  plus  pr6coce  6t6, 
Recueillez  les  signes  bienvenus  (comme  font  les  enfants  avec  des  billes  ou 

des  coquillages  eniil^s  qui  r^sonnent, 
Faites-y  entrer  avril  et  mai,  les  rainettes  coassant  dans  les  Clangs,  I'air  ilas- 

tique, 
Les  abeilles,  les  papillons,  le  passereau  avec  ses  simples  notes, 
L'oiseau  bleu,  et  rhiroiulelie  qui  part  en  flfiche,  n'oubliez  pas  le  high-hole, 

dont  I'aile  (lor6e  ^tincelle. 
La  tranquille  brume  ensoleill6e,  la  fum6e  qui  s'accroche,  la  vapeur,  le  scin- 

tillement  des  eaux  poissonneuses,  I'azur  au-dessus, 
Tout  ce  qui  est  joyeux  et  miroit.-int,  les  ruisscaux  qui  coulent, 
Les  forfits  d'6rables,   les  jours  gr6sillants  de  fSvrier  et   la   fabrication  du 

Sucre, 
le  rouge-gorge  qui  sautille,  ceil  biillant,  poitrine  brune, 
Avec  son  chiir  aj^pel  musical  au  lever  du  soleil,  et  h.  son  coucher, 
Ou  encore  volant  i  travtrs  les  pommiers  du  verger  ou  lorsqu'il  bfttit  le  nid 

de  sa  compngne. 
La  neige  fondue  de  ruirs,  le  saule  poussant  ses  jets  jaunevert. 
Car  voici  le  printemi)s!  voici  1*616  i  et  quoi  encore  en  eux,  t-t  d'eux? 
Toi,  mon  dme  d61ivr6e — rinqui6tude  apr6s  ie  ne  sais  quoi; 
Viens,  ne  nous  attardons  pas  ici,  en  route,  en  haul  et  au  loin! 
■Oh  !  si  Ton  pouvait  voler  comme  l'oiseau! 
Oh  I  s'6ch.Tpper,  et  faire  voile  ! 

Glisser  avec  toi,  0  Ime,  sur  tout,  en  tout,  comme  un  navire  sur  les  eaux  ; 
Recueillir  ces  lueurs,  ces  preludes,  le  bleu  ciel,  I'herbe,  les  gouttes  de  ros6e 

du  matin, 
Le  parfum  du  lilas,  les  buissons  avec  leurs  feuilles  noirvert   en   (brme  de 

coeur ; 
Les   violettes   des   bois,    les    petites    et    d61icates    fleurs    pdles    appel6es 

innocence, 
l^chantillcr.s  et  assortiments  non  pas  seulement  pour  euxm6mes,  mais  pour 

leur  atmosph6re. 
Pour  emlieiiir  1°  buisson  que  j'aime — pour  gazouiller  avec  les  oiseaux 
Un  chant  pour  la  ;Oie  du  temps  du  lilas,  de  retour  en  r6.niniscence." 


WALT   WHITMAN. 


183 


la  vapeur,  le  scin- 


IV.-WALT  WHITMAN.* 

"  Well,  he  looks  like  a  man." — President  Lircoln  on  Walt 
Whitman. 

•'  Give  me  the  pay  1  have  served  for, 
Give  me  to  sing  the  songs  of  the  great  Idea,  take  all  the  rest, 
I  have  loved  the  earth,  sun,  animals,  I  have  despised  riclies, 
I  have  given  alnii  to  every  one  that  ask'd,  stood  up  for  the  stupid  and  crazy, 

devoted  my  income  and  labor  to  others. 
Hated  tyrants,  argued  not  concerning  God,  had  patience  and  indulgence 

toward  the  people,  'aken  off  my  hat  to  nothing  known  or  unknown, 
Gone  freely  with  powerful  uneducated  persons  and  with  the  young,  and  with 

the  mothers  of  families. 
Read  these  leaves  to  myself  in  the  open  air.  tried  them  by  trees,  stars, 

rivers, 
Disniiss'd  whatever  insulted  my  own  soul  or  defiled  my  body, 
Claim'd  nothing  to  niyse)f  which  I  have  not  carefully  claim'd  for  others  on 

the  same  terms. 
Sped  to  the  camps,  and  comrades  found  and  accepted  from  every  State, 
(Upon  this  breast  has  many  a  dying  soldier  lean'd  to  breathe  his  last, 
This  arm,  this  hand,  this  voice,  have  nourish'd,  rais'd,  restored, 
To  life  recalling  many  a  prostrate  form  ;) 

1  am  willing  to  wait  to  be  understood  by  the  growth  of  the  taste  of  myself. 
Rejecting  none,  permitting  all."  f 

*  In  order  to  make  this  essay  on  Walt  Whitman  complete,  it  wou'd  be 
necessary  to  follow  the  third  chapter,  on  "Leaves  of  Grass,"  with  another 
entitled  Drum  Taps,  where  we  should  seek  to  give  an  idea  of  the  epic 
movement  which  animates  all  that  part  of  the  book  called  by  that  name.  We 
fear  to  prolong  the  essay  too  much,  however,  and  find  now  that  it  is  too  late 
to  remedy  the  omission.  If  my  readers  desire  to  see  with  what  power  Walt 
Whitman  has  described  war,  with  what  a  graphic  pen  he  has  seized  it  during 
the  civil  strife,  and  fixed  it,  palpitating  and  sinister,  on  paper,  like  a  soldier  who 
pierces  his  enemy — he  may  refer  to  the  study  published  in  the  "  Revue  des 
Deux  Mondes  "  in  1872  by  one  of  our  I'.istinguished  essayists  and  romancers, 
who  is  at  the  same  time  one  of  the  most  accomplished  women  of  French 
society — I  refer  to  Madame  Th.  Bentzon. 

f  "  Leaves  of  Grass,"  By  Blue  Ontario's  Shore,  p.  273  : 
"  Donaez-moi  la  paye  pour  laquelle  j'ai  servi, 
Donnez-moi  &  chanter  les  chants  de  la  grande  Id6e,  prenez  tout  le  reste, 


1 14  IN  RE   WALT  WHITMAN. 

Have  you  ever  read  anything  greater  in  any  book?  But  re- 
rcail  it  carefully,  and  let  the  sound  of  the  words  penetrate  you. 
There  arc  few  things  nobler ;  and  wiu)  among  us  can  render  such 
testimony  ?  Yes,  he  is  a  man.  Free  citizen  of  America  and 
satisfied  with  the  title,  he  has  stood  covered  before  all,  simple,  dig- 
nined,  cordial,  caring  naught  for  honors,  vanities,  vacuities. 
Son  of  a  fixrmcr,  wiio  became  a  ham  and  house  builder,  he  has 
passed  part  of  iiis  life  at  manual  labor,  as  printer,  teacher,  tiller  of 
the  soil,  carpenter,  journalist,  and  was  always  the  associate  of  the 
healthy,  solifl,  and  laborious  classes.  As  a  writer,  he  has 
not  abandoned  himself  to  the  pursuit  of  literary  vainglory; 
he  has  sought  only  to  do  his  assigned  task,  and  has  neither 
been  beguiled  by  praise  nor  bafHed  by  sneers.  As  Democrat 
he  recognizes  the  grandeur  of  the  masses — has  discovered 
their  higher  inspirations,  and  reprobated  their  vices — and  not- 
withstanding freciuent  objection,  has  persisted  to  the  last  in  his 
faith  in  the  ideas  of  progress  and  perfectability.  He  was  a  j)a- 
triot  after  the  pattern  of  Abraham  Lincoln,  inflexible  under  de- 

J'ai  aini6  I.t  terre,  le  soleil,  les  animnux,  j'ai  ni6pris6  les  riches, 

J'ai  ciomi6  des  aumflncs  &  qui  dcniaiulait,  me  suis  lev6  en  faveur  des  slu- 

pides  et  des  fous,  ai  consacri  nion  revenu  et  mon  travail  aux  ntitres, 
Hal  les  tyraiis,  n'ai  point  dispute  de  Dieu,  ai  us6  de  patience  et  d'indulgence 

it.  r6[>ard  des  gens,  n'ai  6t£  mon  chapeau  k  rien  de  coniiu  ou  d'in- 

con  nil, 
Ai  librement  li6  comjiapnie  avec  les  tem])6raments  puissants  et  incultes,  et 

avec  les  jeunes,  et  avec  les  m^res  de  famille, 
Me  suis  lu  4  moi-nii8nie  ces  feiiilles  en  plein  air,  les  ai  niises  ii  I'ipreuve  pris 

des  arbres,  sous  les  6toiles,  sur  le  bord  des  fleuves, 
Ai  renvoyi  tout  ce  qui  insultait  mon  ftme  ou  souillnit  mon  corps, 
N'ai  rien  r^clami  pour  moi  que  je  n'aie  eu  soin  de  i6clanier  pour  les  autres, 
Ai  couru  aux  camps,  y  ai  trouv^  et  accept^  des  camarades  venus  de  cliaque 

fetat, 
(Sur  ma  poitrine  plus  d'un  soldat  mourant  s'est  appuy6  pour  rendre  le  der- 
nier soupir, 
Ce  bras,  cette  main,  cette  voix  onf  nourri,  relev6,  ritabli, 
Rappel6  h.  la  vie  plus  d'une  forme  prostr6e  ;) 
Et  maintenant  j'attends  volontiers  que  se  ddveloppe,  pour  qu'on  me  com- 

prenne,  le  goflt  de  ma  personnalit6, 
Ne  Kejetant  personne,  admeUant  tous." 


WALT   WHITMAN. 


'«5 


rendre  Ic  der- 


|u  on  me  com* 


feat,  and  did  not  despair  of  the  Union  even  after  Bull  Run. 
A  Christian  truly  evangelical,  he  has  preached  by  example;  not 
content  to  teach  with  words  alone,  he  has  exhorted  his  fellow- 
creatures  to  love  and  aid  one  another,  to  elevate  their  voices 
in  favor  of  the  weak,  the  disinherited,  the  suffering,  tlie 
proscribed,  to  salute  the  oppressed  or  vantpiislied  nations,  and, 
faithful  in  all  points  of  the  doctrine  of  the  Divine  Master,  to 
deny  no  one,  and  to  gather  into  their  universal  love  even  the 
prostitutes  and  criuunals  of  the  earth.  He  has  himself,  and  in 
the  fullest  sense  of  the  word,  practiced  fraternity.  During 
the  Secession  War  he  cared  for  and  assisted,  dressing  their 
wounds  and  cheering  their  spirits,  more  tiian  a  hundred  thou- 
sand uf  the  wounded  or  sick.  Commanding  genius  that  he  is, 
he  has  rendered  homage  to  his  brother  jwssessors  of  genius — 
Poe,  Brvant,  Longfellow,  Thoreau,  Whittier,  limerson,  Lincoln. 

Tliough  still  believing,  he  has  never  ceased  to  adore  the  Kosmos ; 
mobile,  ecstatic  and  joyous,  his  hymn  nestles  in  the  bosom  of  Di  vin  ■ 
ity.  Asa  poet  he  has  disdained  the  atmosphere  of  the  salon  ;  he  has 
taken  the  grand  route  open  to  all  in  the  wide  spaces  of  the  Union, 
across  the  cities,  the  streams,  the  prairies,  the  forests,  the  moun- 
tains ;  he  has  abandoned  hii  :elf  to  the  life  of  nature  ;  has  pro- 
claimed the  innocence  and  sanctity  of  the  flesh  ;  has  drunk, 
eaten,  loved  ;  has  grown  intoxicated  with  the  odors  of  grass  and 
flowers ;  has  bathed  in  the  sea ;  has  taken  the  tan  of  the  sun. 
Oh,  yes,  in  truth,  this  is  a  man  ! 

I  will  go  no  further  with  his  life,  becaus  he  has  himself  con- 
tinued it  in  the  passages  quoted  ;  but  for  t,.ose  who  are  curious 
about  the  smaller  events  on  which  it  bears,  irc  some  pages 

of  biography  : 

Walt  Whitman  was  born  on  the  31st  ot  May,  ..S19,  at  a  farm 
in  West  Hills,  Long  Island.  In  taking  a  survey  of  that  interior 
we  may  easily  see  that  its  inhabitants  are  of  the  middle  class  of 
America,  such  as  it  was  at  the  commencement  of  this  century. 
Both  sexes  worked  at  manual  labor.  Twelve  or  fourteen  slaves 
came  and  went,  giving  to  the  place  a  patriarchal  air.  The  house 
was  long,  built  of  strong  oaken  beams,  and  was  a  story  and  a  half 
high.     A  vast  kitchen,  containing  a  huge  chimney,  occupied  one 


fM 


IN  RK  WAI.T  WIIITMAIT, 


I 


end  of  it,  and  there  clustered  were  the  yotiiiK  darkien,  sitting 
on  the  floor  in  a  circle,  cntioK  tlieir  sii|)i)or  of  Indian  pudding 
and  milk.  There  was  no  luxury  of  furniture,  neither  car- 
pet nor  htoves — only  a  great  wood  fire  to  cheer  the  inmates. 
The  fare  was  wholesome  and  substantial ;  pork  in  abundance, 
veal,  beef,  vegetables,  cider — no  coffee — tea  anil  sugar  only  for 
the  women.  Few  books  were  present.  The  annual  almanack 
was  a  rare  treat,  ai\(l  le<  tures  iluring  the  winter  nig'uts  a  relish 
long  to  be  reuiembered.  They  travelled  on  horseback  in  those 
days,  and  on  upland  roads  could  have  a  view  of  the  sea,  whither 
the  householtl  often  went  for  amusement  and  bathing,  or,  now 
4tnd  again,  the  men  on  more  practical  expeditions,  to  cut  salt 
hay  or  to  fish. 

These  were  the  scenes  amid  which  our  poet  passed  his  earliest 
years,  imder  the  eye  of  excellent  parents.  I  lis  father,  Walter 
Whitman,  was  a  |)lacid  and  serious  man,  kind  to  children  and 
iinimals.  His  mother,  Louisa  van  Velsor,  daughter  of  an  old 
fatnily  of  Hollandish  mariners,  was  noted  for  the  goodness  of 
her  heart,  her  cciuable  cheeriness,  her  good  sense,  i)hysical  health 
and  household  industry — briefly,  she  was  the  true  type  of  a  wife 
and  mother. 

What  wonder  if  from  such  a  stock  sprung  the  strong  and 
genial  branch  which  is  called  Walt  Whitman  ?  He  came  into 
the  family  at  the  moment  when  his  father  was  about  to  change 
his  business  of  farming  for  that  of  buil<ler  of  houses  at  Brook- 
lyn. I  have  already  said  that  the  family  was  numerous ;  it  was 
necessary  that  each  one  should  provide  for  himself  as  soon  as 
possible. 

At  sixteen  years  Walt  (he  was  so  called  to  distinf;uish  him 
from  his  father,  Walter)  set  out  to  learn  typography,  but 
each  year  he  found  means  to  go  back  to  his  birthplace  or  pass 
the  summer  outside  of  the  city.  He  taught  in  families  or  in 
country  schools,  and  began  to  send  articles  to  the  newspapers. 
One  of  these,  ("  Death  in  the  School-Room,")  inserted  in  the 
Democratic  Jievinv,  occasioned  some  remark.  From  1837  to 
1848  we  find  him  fixed  in  New  York  City,  where  he  worked 
at  journalism,  mingling  with  politicians  and  speaking  at  meetings. 


WALT    nillTMAy. 


187 


Hut,  above  all,  he  pliiiiKi'd  into  the  full  current  of  life,  ex- 
|)orimci)ting  witii  it  on  his  own  arcounl,  at  the  same  time  that 
he  studied  it  as  a  s|)crtator,  sf>uiuliiig  its  passions,  pleasures,  in- 
toxications. Characteristic  iilly,  the  company  he  continued  to 
prefer  was  that  of  the  ordinary  classes,  those  people  whom  the 
"snobs"  of  all  countries  <lenominate  "the  common  people," 
pilots  of  the  harbor,  farmers,  fishermen,  workingmen,  the  onmi- 
bns  drivers  on  Hroadway — for  whi(  li  last  he  had  always  a  notable 
predilectit  n.  In  1849  ho  be^jan  his  travels  through  the  Slates, 
crossed  the  Allcj;hcnies,  descended  the  Mississippi  in  a  steam- 
boat, visited  New  Orleans,  where  he  rcniained  a  year  and  edited 
a  newspa|)or ;  then  travelled  again  to  the  North,  and  pcnetrati'd 
as  far  as  Canada.  On  his  return  to  Hrooklyn  he  resumed  his  old 
life:  was  now  a  compositor,  now  a  journalist  and  now  a  builder, 
as  before.* 

At  last,  in  1855,  there  appeared  in  the  windows  of  a  Brooklyn 
book-store  a  little  (juarto  volume  of  a  hundred  pages,  badly 
l)rinted  and  apparently  destitute  of  the  services  of  an  editor. 
The  title  was  "  Leaves  of  Crass."     Naturally  enough  it  received 


*Thi»  American  fncilily  In  pnssinj;  fmrn  one  occupation  to  another  sliock* 
our  old  luiroiican  prcjuilicf*  and  conscrvnlive  veneration  for  c.Trccrs  tlic  most 
strictly  liicrarcliical,  bureaucrntic  and  convcniionai.  We  adhere  to  our 
Course,  as  to  many  others  essentinlly  narrow,  and  f.iii  to  sec  that  a  variety  of 
aptitudes  };ive  to  a  man  an  enlarjjed  social  value.  Once  out  of  his  rut,  a 
European  tinds  nothing;  else  to  his  taste  and,  in  most  cases,  is  good  for  noth- 
ing;. Tlie  American,  however,  is  far  more  llexiMe,  and  the  two  volumes 
which  an  cnjjineer  of  the  navy,  M.  (irasset,  published  upon  men  and  tliiinjs 
in  the  Secession  War,  have  given  us  ample  proof  of  the  fact,  tieneral  Fr6- 
mont,  who  was  much  renowned  in  his  day  and  was  a  rival  in  amtiition  wiih 
Lincoln,  was  at  dilTerent  times,  or  at  once,  scholar,  soldier,  professor,  in- 
dustrial administrator,  politician,  explorer,  engineer,  writer.  Sherman,  before 
liecominj;  the  ailmirable  general  of  cavalry  he  is  known  to  b.ive  been,  was 
successively  engineer  and  banker  at  .San  Krancisco  and  gave  testimony  of  real 
abilities  as  a  financier.  Before  proving  his  woithiness  to  become  general  of 
the  army  and  President  of  the  Union,  Grant  himself  sold  in  the  neighboring 
markets  the  wood  from  his  farm ;  then  associated  himself  with  a  collector  of 
rents.  The  Archbishop  of  New  Orleans,  T.eonidas  Polk,  a  rich  proprietor  of 
slaves,  took  service  with  the  rank  of  general  in  the  Confederate  army  and 
Continued  to  discharge  at  the  front  a  double  office  of  priest  and  soldier. 


SI'      ' 


1 88 


IN  BE  Tl'^LT  WHITMAN. 


no  attention,  and  weeks  passed  before  a  single  copy  was  sold. 
The  principal  journals  were  furnished  with  copies,  but  none  of 
them  noticed  it.  Several  of  the  distinguished  persons  to  whon» 
it  was  sent  returned  it  with  insulting  pencil  notes  on  the  margins. 
All  at  once  there  was  a  sensation.  Emerson  had  read  the  hook 
and  pronounced  it  a  work  of  genius,  and  "  the  most  extraordi- 
nary piece  of  wit  and  wisdom  that  America  has  yet  contributed." 
Upon  this  the  battle  began.  While  the  retrograders  and  Phari- 
sees accused  the  great  poet  of  libertinism,  impiety,  atheism,  and 
the  conservative  and  timorous  durst  not  pronounce  for  him,  all  the 
spirits  of  the  van,  and  among  them  some  of  the  greatest  names 
of  contemporary  Anglo-Saxon  letters,  ranged  themselves  on  his 
side.     But  the  issue  of  the  conflict  was  not  long  in  doubt. 

The  young  persons  of  America,  on  whom  he  began  to  exer- 
cise a  veritable  fascination,  to-day  take  sides  with  the  author  of 
'•Leaves  of  Grass,"  "Democratic  Vistas"  and  "Specimen 
Days."  From  this  time  forth,  through  the  tranquil  and 
colossal  attitude  of  his  work,  Walt  Whitman  becomes  an  aston- 
ishing and  even  pre-Adamic  figure — a  figure  ancestral  and  patri- 
archal. He  seems  to  rise,  after  the  manner  of  a  bard,  a  whole 
head  above  the  other  American  poets,  his  brothers.  His  portrait 
has  been  painted  many  times,  and  it  well  completes  his  moral 
physiognomy.  Of  full  height,  head  absolutely  oval  and  perfectly 
symmetrical,  the  eyebrows  widely  arched,  a  large  and  straight  nose, 
long  beard  and  hair,  tranquil  blue  eyes  on  which  the  lids  droop 
voluntarily — so  he  is  depicted  by  his  friend,  John  Burroughs. 
In  taking  a  sea-bath  with  him,  Moncure  D.  Conway  noticed, 
"  that  the  tun  had  put  a  red  mask  on  his  neck  and  face,  and 
that  his  body,  equally  of  a  fair  redness,  was  remarkable  for  its 
beautiful  curves  and  for  that  grace  of  movement,  the  flower 
of  noble  forms."  In  his  social  intercourse  he  is  genial,  of  an 
equable  humor,  modest,  questions  little  and  voluntarily  gives 
up  the  lead,  and  is  without  literary  or  philosophical  preten- 
sions. 

We  arrive  at  the  heroic  period  of  his  life,  the  great  American 
crisis,  the  Secession  War.  His  brother,  Colonel  George  W.  Whit- 
man, having  been  wounded   in   the  face  by  a  piece  of  shell  at 


t   r 


WALT  WHITMAN. 


189 


Fredericksburg,  in  1862,  the  poet  went  down  to  take  care  of  him, 
and  profited  by  the  occasion  to  remain  in  the  service  of  the 
wounded  and  sick.  He  maintained  himself  by  correspondence 
with  Northern  journals,  and  stationed  in  Washington,  now  be- 
come a  vast  hospital,  or  among  the  flying  ambulances  which  fol- 
lowed the  army,  not  only  did  he  labor  through  a  number  of  years 
in  the  post  which  he  had  ass'  jd  himself,  but  up  to  1867  he 
continued  his  offices  at  the  hospitals  each  Sunday  and  frequently 
during  the  week  to  the  mutilated  of  the  dreadful  war.  Thus  as  an 
attendant  and  worker  on  the  wounded  and  sick  soldiers, North  and 
South,  Walt  Whitman,  indeed,  has  passed  into  a  tradition.  "  Here 
his  character  culminated,"  says  John  Burroughs,  and  continues: 
"An  army  surgeon  who  at  the  time  watched  with  curiosity  Mr. 
Whitman's  movements  among  the  soldiers  in  the  hospitals  has 
since  told  me  that  his  principles  of  operation,  effective  as  they 
were,  seemed  strangely  few,  simple,  and  on  a  low  key :  to  act 
upon  the  appetite,  to  cheer  by  a  healthy  and  fitly  bracing  ap- 
pearance and  demeanor,  and  to  fill  and  satisfy,  in  certain  cases, 
the  affectional  longings  of  the  patients,  was  about  all.  He  car- 
ried among  them  no  sentimentali?m  nor  moralizing  ;  spoke  not 
to  any  man  of  his  '  sins;  '  but  gave  something  good  to  eat,  a 
buoying  word,  or  a  trifling  gift  and  a  look.  He  appeared  with 
ruddy  face,  clean  dress,  with  a  flower  or  a  green  sprig  in  the 
lappet  of  his  coat.  Crossing  the  fields  in  summer  he  would 
gather  a  great  bunch  of  dandelion  blossoms,  and  red  and  white 
clover,  to  bring  and  scatter  on  the  cots,  as  reminders  of  out-door 
air  and  sunshine. 

"  When  practicable,  he  came  to  the  long  and  crowded  wards 
of  the  maimed,  the  feeble,  and  the  dying,  only  after  preparations 
as  for  a  festival — strengthened  by  a  good  meal,  rest,  the  bath, 
and  fresh  underclothes.  He  entered  with  a  huge  haversack 
slung  over  his  shoulder,  full  of  appropriate  articles,  with  parcels 
under  his  arms,  and  protuberant  pockets.  He  would  some- 
times oome  in  summer  with  a  good-sized  basket,  filled  with 
oranges,  and  would  go  round  for  hours  paring  and  dividing  them 
among  the  feverish  and  thirsty. 

"I  would  say  to  the  reader  that  I  have  dwelt  upon  this  portion 


I   1I 


J 


IQO 


IN  RE  WALT  WHITMAN. 


of  Walt  Whitman's  life,  not  so  much  because  it  enters  into  the 
statement  of  his  biography,  as  because  it  really  enters  into  the 
statement  of  his  poetry,  and  affords  a  light  through  which  alone 
the  later  pieces,  and  in  some  sort  the  whole  of  his  work,  can  be 
fitly  construed.  His  large,  oceanic  nature  doubtless  enjoyed 
fully,  and  grew  all  the  larger  from,  pouring  out  of  its  powerful 
currents  of  magnetism ;  and  this  is  evident  in  his  pieces  since 
1861. 

"  The  statement  is  also  needed  with  reference  to  the  country, 
for  it  rises  to  national  proportions.  To  more  than  a  hundred 
thousand  suffering  soldiers  was  he,  during  the  war,  personally 
the  cheering  visitor,  and  ministered  in  some  form  to  their  direct 
needs  of  body  and  spirit ;  soldiers  from  every  quarter,  west,  east, 
north,  and  south — for  he  treated  the  rebel  wounded  the  same 
as  the  rest. 

"Of  course  there  were  plenty  of  others,  men  and  women, 
who  engaged  faithfully  in  the  same  service.  But  it  is  probable 
that  no  other  was  so  endowed  for  it  as  Walt  Whitman.  I  should 
say  his  whole  character  culminates  here;  and,  as  a  country  is 
best  viewed  by  ascending  some  peak,  so  from  this  point  his  life 
and  book  are  to  be  read  and  understood." 

The  hardships  of  such  campaign  labors  caused  him  to  fall  sick 
in  1864,  and  when  in  about  six  months  he  was  restored,  to  rec- 
ompense him  for  his  conduct,  the  then  Secretary  of  the  In- 
terior, James  Harlan — we  desire  to  record  the  name  that  it  may 
be  locked  in  the  pillory — discharged  him  from  the  small  posi- 
tion under  the  Government  he  had  obtained  in  Washington, 
which,  in  assuring  him  a  fixed  revenue,  permitted  him  still  to 
continue  his  assiduous  work  in  the  hospitals  at  that  city.  In 
vain  a  friend  of  Harlan  essayed  to  have  the  poet  reinstated. 
The  Secretary  of  the  Interior  responded  that  "  the  author  of 
*  Leaves  of  Grass '  should  never  be  an  employ^  of  his  Depart- 
ment." The  poet  was  immediately  revenged,  however,  by  re- 
ceiving from  another  official  a  place  which  was  fortunately 
m  his  gift.  At  this  post  Walt  Whitman  remained  until  his 
retirement  from  the  service. 

Some  time  after  the  incidents  we  have  mentioned,  which  doubt- 


WALT  WHITMAN. 


igt 


less  the  poet  sufficiently  disdained,  an  event  of  quite  another  order 
overwhelmed  him.  Abraham  Lincoln  was  assassinated.  This  was 
for  Walt  Whitman  a  blow  the  more  violent  in  that  he  considered 
the  President  not  only  one  of  the  noblest  political  characters  of 
modern  times,  but  the  ideal  embodiment  of  America.  But  grief 
soon  gave  place  to  enthusiasm.  Exalted  by  the  tragic  splendor 
of  such  a  death,  he  wrote  the  piece  entitled  "  When  Lilacs  Last 
in  the  Door  yard  Bloom'd,"  a  poem  full  of  solemn  and  sublime 
sadness  and  the  noblest  liomage  the  tonib  of  a  hero  ever  received. 
Many  an  American  throat  swells  with  tears  over  it,  invigorating, 
though  it  be  and  inspiring  as  some  full  organ  chant. 


"  When  lilacs  last  in  the  dooryard  bloom'd, 
And  the  great  star  early  droop'd  in  the  western  sky  in  the  night, 
I  mourn'd,  and  yet  shall  mourn  with  ever-returning  spring. 

Ever-returning  spring,  trinity  sure  to  me  you  bring. 
Lilac  blooming  perennial  and  drooping  star  in  the  west, 
And  thought  of  him  I  love " 


Coffin  that  passes  through  lanes  and  streets, 

Through  day  and  night  with  the  great  cloud  darkening  the  land, 

With  the  pomp  of  the  inloop'd  flags  with  the  cities  draped  in  black, 

With  the  show  of  the  States  themselves  as  of  crape-veil'd  women  standing, 

With  processions  long  and  winding  and  the  flambeaus  of  the  night. 

With  the  countless  torches  lit,  with  the  silent  sea  of  faces  and  the  unbared' 

heads. 
With  the  waiting  depot,  the  arriving  coffin,  and  the  somber  faces. 
With  dirges  through  the  night,  with  the  thousand  voices  rising  strong  and 

solemn. 
With  all  the  mournful  voices  •(  the  dirges  pour'd  around  the  coffin. 
The  dim-lit  churches  and  the  shuddering  organs — where  amid  these  you 

journey. 
With  the  tolling,  tolling  bells'  perpetual  clang, 
Here,  coffin  that  slowly  passes, 
I  give  you  my  sprig  of  lilac. 

(Nor  for  you,  for  one  alone, 
Blossoms  and  branches  green  to  coffins  all  I  bring, 

For  fresh  as  the  morning,  thus  would  I  chant  a  song  for  you  O  sane  and' 
sacred  death. 


!       H 


M 
M 


192 


JN  RE   WALT  WHITMAN. 


All  over  bouquets  of  roses, 

O  death,  I  cover  you  over  with  roses  and  early  lilies, 

But  mostly  and  now  the  lilac  that  blooms  the  first, 

Copious  I  break,  I  break  the  sprigs  from  the  bushes, 

With  loaded  arms  I  come,  pouring  for  you. 

For  you  and  the  coffins  all  of  you  O  death.)"  * 


11    ^ 


*  "  Leaves  of  Grass,"   Memories  of  President  Lincoln  ;   When  Lilacs  Last 
in  the  Dooryard Blooni' d,  p.  255-258: 

«  Quant  les  lilas  fleurirent  dans  le  jardin, 
£t  qu'au  coucher  du  soleil  la  grande  ^toile  s'afTaissa  dans  le  ciel  de  I'ouest, 
Je  pleural,  et  pleurerai  encore  &  chaque  ilernel  retour  du  printemps. 

Chaque  ^ternel  retour  du  printemps  m'apportera  cette  trinity  certaine,  , , 

Lilas  fleurissant  ^ternels  et  I'^toile  qui  s'affaisse  ^  I'ouest, 
Et  la  pens6e  de  celui  que  j'aime " 

Ceicueil  qui  passez  par  les  ruelles  et  les  mes, 

De  jour  et  de  nuit  avec  le  grand  nuage  ent6n6brant  la  contr6e, 

Avec  la  pompe  des  drapeaux,  avec  les  cit6s  drap6es  en  noir, 

Avec  I'apparat  des  Etats  debout,  semblables  ^  des  femmes  voil6es  d'un  long 

crfipe, 
Avec  les  longues  processions  qui  toument  et  les  flambeaux  dans  la  nuit, 
Avec  les  innoml  nbles  torches  alluni£es,  avec  la  silencieuse  mer  des  visages 

et  des  tfites  d^couvertes, 
Avec  le  d6pOt  qui  attend,  le  cercueil  qui  arrive,  et  les  sombres  visages, 
Avec  les  chants  fun^bres  dan'  la  nuit,  et  les  mille  voix  qui  s'616vent  fortes 

et  solennelles, 
Avec  toutes  les  voix  de  lamentation  des  chants  fun^bres  versus  autour  du 

cercueil, 
Les  lumidres  allum^es  sous  les  vofites  obscures  des  ^glises  et  les  orgues  qui 

frissonnent  partout  oil  vous  passez, 
OH  vous  passez  avec  le  glas  perp6tuel  des  cloches, 
Ici,  cercueil  qui  lentement  passez, 
Je  vous  apporte  mon  rameau  de  lilas. 

Non  pour  vous,  non  pour  vous  seul, 

Mais  des  fleurs  et  des  branches  vertes  &  tous  les  cercueils  j'apporte. 
Car  pour  vous  je  veux  chanter  un  chant  frats  comme  le  matin,  0  mort  saine 
et  sacr^e. 

Partout  des  bouquets  de  roses,  -^ 

O  mort,  je  vous  couvre  de  roses  et  des  premiers  lis, 


«  Lilacs  Last 


WALT  WHITMAN.  193 

And  further  on  he  takes  up  the  tone  of  the  andante :  * 

"  O  how  shall  I  warble  myself  for  the  dead  one  there  I  loved  ? 
And  how  shall  I  deck  my  song  for  the  large  sweet  soul  that  has  gone  ? 
And  what  shall  my  perfume  be  for  the  grave  of  him  I  love  ? 

Sea-winds  blown  from  east  and  west, 

Blown  from  the  Eastern  sea  and  blown  from  the  Western  sea,  till  there  on 

the  prairies  meeting, 
These  and  with  these  and  the  breath  of  my  chant, 
I'll  perfume  the  grave  of  him  I  love."  f 

We  would  desire  to  speak  of  the  admirable  piece  which  he 
dedicated  under  the  title  "0  Star  of  France"  to  our  disheart- 
ened country  in  1870,  but  as  our  biography  can  at  most  be  only 
a  summary  of  indispensable  details  we  must  close  it  here.  In- 
firmities and  old  age  have  latterly  enfeebled  Walt  Whitman's 
body.  He  is  partially  paralyzed.  But  nothing  can  impair  his 
mind,  and  in  his  sufferings  he  exhibits  the  serenity  of  the  sages 
of  ancient  days.  He  never  complains,  Dr.  Bucke  tells  us,  and 
keeps  an  even  and  patient  temper,  more  beautiful  to  see  in  his 
waning  years  than  in  his  robust  youth  and  magnificent  middle 
age. 

And  since  it  is  so  perhaps  it  is  better  so.     Trial,  the  neces- 

Mais  surtout  k  cette  heure  du  lilas  qui  fleurit  le  premier, 

J'en  apf)orte  en  abondance,  je  brise  les  branches  des  massifs, 

Les  bras  charges  j'arrive,  et  les  r6pands  pour  voas, 

Pour  vous  et  |X)ur  tous  vos  cerceuils,  0  mort." 
*  See  also  the  admirable  piece  entitled   O  Captain!  My  Captain! 
f"  Leaves  of  Grass,"  Memories  of  President  Lincoln;   When  Lilacs  Last 

in  the  Dooryard  Bloomed,  p.  255-258  : 
"  Oh !  comment  modulerai-je  pour  le  mort  ici  que  j'aime  ? 

Comment  parer  mon  chant  pour  la  grande  et  douce  ame  qui  s'en  est  all6e  ? 

Et  quel  sera  le  parfum  dont  je  parfumerai  la  tombe  de  celui  que  j'aime  ? 

Vents  de  mer  qui  soufflez  de  I'Est  et  de  I'Ouest, 

Qui,  soufflant  dela  mer  de  I'Est  etsoufflant  de  la  mci  de  I'Ouest,  vous  ren- 
contrez  sur  les  prairies, 

Avec  vos  souffles  et  avec  I'haleine  de  mon  chant, 

Je  parfumerai  la  tombe  de  celui  que  j'aime." 
>3 


194 


IN  EE   WALT  WHITMAN. 


sary  complement  of  every  great  life,  is  come  to  fix  about  that 
venerable  brow  its  supreme  and  touching  halo.  To-day  the 
consecration  is  absolute ;  the  poet,  carried  onward  by  the  hero, 
is  perfected  by  the  stoic  and  is  crowned  in  bim.  So  em- 
bodied, he  stands  an  adequate  type  for  the  sculptor's  chinel. 
Like  his  brother  in  genius,  who,  seeing  his  worth  at  a  glance, 
called  him  "a  man,"  whom  he  called  in  his  turn  "captain" 
and  the  death  of  whom  he  chanted  in  immortal  melodies,  he 
has  an  indescribable  masculinity,  serenity  simple  and  epic, 
absent  since  the  great  citizens  of  the  ancient  republics  departed. 
In  a  word,  he  appears  as  a  specimen,  rare  in  the  modern  world, 
of  those  powerful  and  flexible  organizations  which  rose  in  the 
antique  cities  of  the  golden  age,  anxious  to  cultivate  numberless 
aptitudes  and  tending  instinctively  toward  the  incarnation  of 
a  complete  manhood. 


DUTCH   TRAITS  OF  WALT  WHITMAN.. 

-    By  WILLIAM  SLOANE  KENNEDY. 


Ancestrally,  Walt  Whitman,  who  makes  so  much  of  mother- 
hood and  fatherhood,  comes  himself  meandering  from  a  blended 
tri-heredity  stream  of  Dutch  ("  Hollandisk  ")  and  the  original 
Friends  (Quakers)  and  Puritans  of  Cromwell's  time.  His  mother 
was  of  pure  Netherland  descent,  and  his  maternal  grandmother 
was  a  Quaker  in  religion.  I  believe  the  Dutch  element  domi- 
nates the  Quaker  in  him.  He  "  favors  "  his  mother,  nee  Louisa 
Van  Velsor — inherits  her  to  the  life,  emotionally  and  in  phys- 
ique. She  was  a  person  of  medium  size  (a  little //«j),  of  splendid 
physique  and  health,  a  hard  worker,  bore  eight  children,  was  be- 
loved by  all  who  met  her  ;  good-looking  to  the  last ;  lived  to  be 
nearly  eighty.  Dr.  Bucke's  book  about  Walt  Whitman  has  quite 
a  good  portrait  of  his  mother  at  seventy.  No  tenderer  or  more 
invariable  tie  was  ever  between  mother  and  son  than  the  love  be- 
tween her  and  Walt  Whitman.  No  one  could  have  seen  her  and 
her  father,  Major  Kale  (Cornelius)  Van  Velsor,  of  Cold  Spring, 
Queen's  county,  N.  Y.,  either  in  their  prime  or  in  their  older 
age,  without  instantly  perceiving  their  plainly-marked  HoUand- 
esque  physiognomy,  color  and  body  build.  Walt  Whitman  has 
all  of  it.  He  shows  it  in  his  old  features  now,  especially  in  his 
full  face  and  red  color.  The  rubicund  face  in  the  oil  portrait 
of  him  by  Hine,  the  New  Yorker,  or  Eakins,  the  Philadelphia 
artist,  looks  amazingly  like  one  of  Rubens's  or  Teniers's  Dutch 
burgomasters  ;  as  also  does  one  of  Cox's  photographs  (the  one 
with  hat  on  head  thrown  back  which  W.  calls  "  the  laughing  phi- 
losopher ").  Tacitus,  Taine,  Motley,  all  speak  of  the  rose-colored 
skins,  blue  eyes,  and  flaxen  (almost  white)  hair  of  the  Hol- 
landers.    The  Romans  related  that  the  children  of  the  Nether- 

('95) 


! 


f 


f 


i  f- 


>     i 


I 


196 


ly  RE  WALT  wiirnrAN, 


lands  had  the  hair  of  old  men.  Perhaps  the  turning  of  Walt's 
hair  almost  wliite  before  he  was  thirty  may  have  to  be  ascribe*! 
to  this  Dutch  peculiarity.  His  pink-tinged  skin  is  unmistakably 
Dutch. 

For  some  reason,  there  is  no  fitting  record,  either  in  portrait- 
ure or  literary  text,  of  very  grand  women  of  Holland,  although 
.'lat  country  produced  the  choicest  specimens  of  the  earth.  It 
■was  a  type  and  growth  of  its  own  ;  a  noble  and  perfect  maternity 
was  its  result. 

Whitman,  as  his  friends  know,  is  fond  of  reviewing  in  conver- 
sation the  history  and  development  of  the  Low  Dutch,  their 
•:oncrete  physiology,  their  fierce  war  against  Philip  and  Aiva, 
the  building  of  the  great  dykes,  the  shipping  and  trade  and  col- 
onization— from  1600  to  the  present — and  their  old  cities  and 
towers  and  soldiery  and  markets  and  salt  air  and  flat  topography 
and  human  pi:ysiognomy  and  bodily  form,  and  their  coming  and 
planting  here  in  America  and  investing  themselves  not  so  much 
in  outward  manifestations  as  in  the  blood  and  breed  01"  the 
American  race  ;  and  he  considers  his  "  Leaves  of  Grass  "  to  be 
in  some  respects  understood  only  by  reference  to  that  Holland- 
•esque  interior  of  history  and  personality.  To  this  hour  he  has 
never  forgiven  Washington  Irving  for  making  the  foundation- 
settlers  of  New  Amsterdam  (New  York  city)  so  ridiculous  and 
stupid. 

One  likes  to  think  of  Whitman,  the  first  Democrat  of  the  New 
World,  as  sprung  from  far-off  Holland,  the  rr- die  of  liberty  in 
the  Old  World.  It  must  be  plainly  said,  however,  that  Walt 
Whitman  is  monumentally  neither  an  Englishman  nor  a  Dutch- 
man nor  a  Quaker :  he  is  an  American  pagan,  an  aboriginal  crea- 
tion, fresh-minted,  sui  generis.  Nevertheless,  the  Hollander 
and  the  Quaker  are  plainly  discernible  in  the  background  of  his 
being — like  the  Pyncheon  ghost  in  Alicr  s  necromantic  vision. 
Every  man  is  really  a  sort  of  palimp  iest,  and  his  mind  and  body 
are  r  ^perimposed  upon  a  series  of  some  hundred  million  erasures 
by  the  hand  of  Nature.  Your  ancestors  or  mine,  footing  it  back 
only  to  the  time  of  William  the  Conqueror,  actually  number 
three  or  four  millions.     A  typical  poet  is  the  summing  up  of  a 


It  *  "• 


VUrCII  TRAITS  OF   WALT   WHITMAN. 


»97 


ver,  that  Walt 


race,  its  perfect  flower,  containing  not  only  its  richest  perfume, 
but  the  germs  of  its  coming  vital  thought.  To  Walt  Wiiitman, 
as,  in  many  respects,  the  voice  and  type  of  the  American-bora 
Dutch  race,  may  be  applied  the  old  Hollandisk  couplet : 

'•  De  waarheid  die  in  diiister  lag, 
Die  koint  met  klanrheid  aan  den  dag." 

("  The  truth  ihat  lay  darkling  now  leaps  to  the  light.") 

"  Leaves  of  Grass,"  and  their  author  too,  are  much  like  a 
great  mass  of  dark-rolling  gray  clouds,  looking  at  first  impassive 
enough,  but  surcharged  full  with  chain  lightning. 

Not  the  Scotch-Irish  stock  itself,  or  the  Jewish,  is  more  dourly 
and  stubbornly  prepotent  in  the  ocean  of  human  society  than  is 
this  Dutch  strain  in  ,*  merica.  These  original  storks  tinge  and 
saturate  the  billows  of  humanity  through  generations,  as  great 
r'vers  debouching  into  the  deep  carry  their  own  color  in  haughty 
flow  far  out  on  the  high  seas.  Few  realize  how  the  Dutch  ele- 
ment has  percolated  through  our  population  in  New  York  and 
Pennsylvania.  As  late  as  1750  more  than  one-half  of  the  in- 
habitants of  New  York  State  were  Dutch.*  The  rural  Dutch  to- 
day almost  always  have  large  families  of  children,  and  form  in 
every  respect  the  solidest  element  in  their  community.  In  New 
York  city  and  in  Brooklyn  and  Albany  it  is  superfluous  to  say 
that  to  belong  to  a  Dutch  family  is  to  belong  to  blue  blood,  the 
aristocracy.  Besides  Whitman,  the  American  Dutch  have  pro- 
duced such  intellectualities  as  Wendell  Phillips,  the  orator,  and 
the  scientist  and  wit  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes — descended  from^ 
the  Wendells  of  Albany  on  his  mother's  side.  It  is  stated  by 
recent  savans  that  there  are  cogent  reasons  for  believing  that  the 
origin  of  our  puMic-school  system  is  traceable  to  the  wisdom  of 
the  citizens  of  New  Amsterdam.  (See  Mr.  Elting's  paper,  just 
mentioned.)  "  The  first  universities,"  says  Max  Miiller,  "  which 
provided  chairs  for  the  comparative  study  of  the  religions  of  fhe 
world,  were  those  of  little,  plucky  Holland." 

*  Irving  Elting,  "  Dutch  Village  Communities  on  the  Hudson  River,"  in. 
Johns  Hopkins  University  "  Studies,"  etc..  Series  4,  Vol.  I.,  p.  65. 


I 


198 


IN  RE   WALT   WHITMAN. 


The  Dutch  are  very  practical  and  materialistic,  and  are  great 
money-makers,  but  are  yet  "  terribly  transcendental  and  cloudy, 
too,"  writes  Walt  Whitman  to  me.  "  More  than  half  the  Hol- 
landisk  *  immigrants  to  New  York  bay,"  he  writes,  "became 
farmers,  and  a  goodly  portion  of  the  rest  became  engineers  or 
sailors."  ' 

The  English  and  t'    "  ;ins  the  Low  Dutch  are  so  much 

alike  in  basic  traits  thi  1  .  diffirult  to  unthread  these  in  Whit- 
man's make-up,  and  say,  "So  much  is  English  and  so  much 
Dutch."  I3ut  I  think  his  tremendous  stubbornness,  the  inexor- 
able firmness  of  his  phlegmatic  nature,  are  inherited  from  the 
heroic  defenders  of  Haarlem,  Leyden  and  Alkmaar.  His  en- 
durance, practicality,  sanity,  thrift,  excessive  neatness  and  purity 
of  person,  and  the  preponderance  of  the  simple  and  serious  over 
the  humorous  and  refined  in  his  phrenology,  are  clearly  of  Dutch 
origin.  Taine,  in  his  rare  little  study,  "  The  Philosophy  of  Art 
in  the  Netherlands,"  speaks  of  the  phlegm  of  the  Dutch  and  the 
passivity  of  their  features.  They  love  silence  and  absorption  of 
mind  ;  are  collected,  calm,  patient,  long-planning,  and  prefer 
depth  to  shining  surfaces.  Their  soft  and  sluggish  atmosphere 
produces  in  them  a  measureless  content  and  a  great  dis])osition 
to  sensuousncss.  All  this  applies  remarkably  to  the  Holland- 
esque-American  poet.  Remember,  too,  the  prosaic  realism  of 
Whitman — his  deep-rooted  hankering  after  details,  enumera- 
tions— and  tally  it  with  the  minute  finish  of  the  pictures  of  Van 
Eyck,  Teniers,  Rubens.  In  love  of  power  and  glowing-exuber- 
ant life  Whitman  seems  to  me  strongly  to  resemble  Rubens. 
'Like  him,  too,  in  his  deep  affection  for  his  mother  and  in  his 
generous  treatment  of  his  contemporaries.  Though  the  topping 
fact  forever  separating  Walt  from  all  those  Old-World  Nether- 
landers  is  his  profound  spirituality,  his  soaring,  never-absent 
mystical  philosophy.  The  transcendentalism,  or  profound  de- 
itermination  upon  the   religious,  of  the  American-born  Dutch 


ft 


*  A  word  of  his  own  coining.  "  About  the  best  word  to  nip  and  print  and 
■stick  to,"  he  states.  His  word  suggests  to  me  "  Hollandesque,"  which  I  pre- 
fer, I  believe,  though  "  HoUandisk  "  is  more  vigorous. 


DUTCH  TEA  ITS  OF   WALT   WHITMAN. 


199 


(and  it  is  undoubted)  is  not  found  among  the  Continental  Hol- 
landers— at  least  in  their  art.  Riiskin,  s|)eaking  of  the  material- 
istic  side  of  the  Dutdi  character,  caustically  remarks  that  their 
only  god  is  a  pint  pot,  and  all  the  incense  offered  thereto  comes 
out  of  a  small  censer  or  bowl  at  the  end  of  a  pipe.  But  this  is 
only  a  peevish  artist's  persiflage.  It  leaves  wholly  untouched 
the  massive  and  splendid  moral  qualities  of  the  Dutch.  In 
America  tlie  Netherlanders  have  evidently  not  only  blended 
with  and  colored  the  English  stock,  but  have  themselves  been 
perceptibly  Americanized,  have  assimilated  a  measure  of  the 
Puritan  qualities  of  spirituality,  philosophy  and  idealism,  that 
seem  to  thrive  in  our  intense,  thought-sharpening  climate,  and 
among  the  New  England  people  by  whom  the  American  Dutch 
have  continually  been  surrounded  both  on  Long  Island  and  in 
New  York  State. 

As  for  Whitman's  imaginative  genius,  I  have  sometimes  won- 
dered, did  it  not  come  in,  perchance,  through  a  Welsh  crevice? 
His  maternal  grandmother  was  a  Williams,  and  almost  all  Wil- 
liamses  are  Welsh.  After  all,  Walt  Whitman  may  be  a  Celtic 
geyser  bursting  through  a  Flemish  mead. 


u 


Onk  thiiiR  strike*  me  about  every  one  who  carei  for  what  you  write — while 
your  altractiui)  Ih  most  absuUitu,  and  the  iniprciisiou  yuu  make  as  puwcrrul  as 
that  of  any  teacher  oxvaUs,  you  do  not  rob  the  mind  of  its  independence,  or 
divert  it  from  its  true  direction— you  make  no  slaves,  however  many  lovers. 

You  have  many  readers  in  Ireland,  and  those  who  read  do  not  feel  a  quali- 
fied deli)^ht  in  your  poems — do  not  love  them  by  degree,  but  with  an  absolute, 
a  personal  love.  We  none  of  us  (piestion  that  yours  is  the  clearest,  and 
sweetest,  and  fullest  American  voice.  We  yrant  as  true  all  that  you  claim  for 
yourself.     And  you  gain  steadily  among  us  new  readers  and  lovers. 

Ei/wani  Doxiuien  to  IV lit  ll'hitmnn,  liTl. 

I  I.IKR  well  the  positions  &  ideas  in  your  Westminster  article — radiating 
from  tlie  central  point  of  assumption  of  my  pieces  being  or  conuncncing  "the 
poetry  of  Democracy."  It  presents  all  the  considerations,  which  such  a 
critical  text  and  starting  point  require,  in  a  full,  eloquent,  and  convincing 
manner.  I  entirely  accept  it  all  &  several,  and  am  not  unaware  that  it  affords 
perhaps,  if  not  the  only,  at  least  the  most  likely  gate,  by  which  you,  as  an 
earnest  friend  of  my  book,  &  believer  in  it,  and  critic  of  it,  would  gain  en- 
trance to  a  loading  review.  Then  tinally  I  think  the  main  point  you  exploit  is 
v  'ly  of  the  fust  importance — and  perhaps  too  all  the  rest  relating  to  my  book 
can  be  broached  through  it  as  well  as  any  way. 


Walt  Whitman  to  Edward  Dmuden,  1 873. 


(200) 


WALT  WHITMAN  :  POET  AND  PHILOSOPHER 

AND  MAN. 


By  HORACE  L.    TRAVBBL, 


Whitman,  1 87 1. 


i  Doxvdcn,  1872. 


Aftkr  the  storms  and  perils  and  superficial  reverses  of  more 
than  three  decades,  Walt  Whitman  remains  the  one  unicjue  in- 
fluence devt;h)ped  in  tlie  literature  of  our  Western  democracy. 
Greeted  with  almost  universal  laugliter,  neglect,  or  scorn,  he  has 
lived  to  see  all  trivial  objections  thrown  into  disrespect,  a'l  tra- 
ditions and  hypocrisies  mo^e  or  less  questioned,  and  much  of  even 
the  popular  opposition  yielding  to  inevitable  applause.  This  is 
the  history  of  all  daring  genius  of  the  first  order.  But  our  mod- 
ern lives  are  lived  so  compactly — the  years  crowd  so  fast  one 
upon  another — that  the  justice  which  anciently  came  only  for 
the  memory  of  greatness  may  now  crown  its  gray  hairs.  Tiiere 
are  many  proofs  in  the  case  of  Walt  Whitman  that  his  foothold 
is  gained  and  that  he  forecasts  new  religious  and  political  revela- 
tions. Not  for  hair-splittings  or  professional  displays  or  simple 
ends  of  art  or  merely  to  dally  with  the  edge  of  life  had  he  come 
and  had  his  summons  excited  custom  and  prejudice  to  alarm. 
Whitman  is  an  American.  In  the  large  .sense  he  is  a  child  of  the 
republic.  In  him  democracy  first  found  unapologetic  voice. 
Through  his  book  have  swept  all  airs  out  of  the  free  heavens, 
gushed  all  streams  aromaed  by  the  wild  earth.  The  grave 
problems  of  our  youthful  history  find  in  him  solace,  judgment, 
and  exit.  What  has  he  done  to  justify  the  declaration  ?  How 
is  his  book  greater  than  a  thousand  books  of  his  time  ?  Wherein 
is  his  individuality  majestic  above  the  majesty  of  other  men  who 
have  had  their  hour  of  speech  or  song,  of  philosophy  or  story?" 
Walt  Whitman  is  the  first  man  to  utter  the  message  of  our  de- 

(201) 


!'l 


-30  a 


IN  RE   WALT   WHITSfAN. 


:    I 


f  ^ 


I 


niocracy,  the  first  to  indicate  by  other  than  hints  and  signs  the 
future  to  which  it  tends,  the  first  to  show  that  America  is  impor- 
tant in  the  measure  of  its  ability  to  make  all  lands  co-inheritors 
of  its  opportunity,  the  first  to  prove  that  man  is  complete  even  in 
his  incompleteness,  the  first  to  put  standciid,  Ojeda-like,  into  the 
Pacific  of  iniquity  and  to  claim  it  as  virtue's  own,  for  ends  not 
less  certain  because  obscure.  These  facts  impose  upon  us  a 
peculiar  obligation  to  understand  the  word  he  has  spoken,  the  de- 
meanor which  has  distinguished  him,  the  issue  that  he  involves. 

II. 

Whitman's  life  from  its  start  was  rebellious  to  all  formal  lines. 
His  father  possessed  a  free  individuality,  and  his  mother  was  dis- 
tinguished bv  the  abundance  of  her  optimism.  In  Whitman 
himself  these  cardinal  factors  combined  to  produce  the  most 
exalted  effects.  Whether  he  writes  or  speaks,  he  tenderly 
credits  all  the  claims  of  ancestry  and  soil — the  Quaker  element 
in  his  spiritual  cosmography,  the  Dutch  and  English  brawn 
and  brain,  the  sacred  potent  mother-light  that  flashed  peace 
and  content  into  all  moods  and  seasons,  the  pauseless  sea  from 
whose  musical  lips  he  caught  the  first  pulse  and  rhythm  of 
song.  He  had  heroic  history  back  of  him.  Members  of  the  line 
had  participated  in  the  Revolution.  His  grandfather  had 
known  Thomas  Paine  and  was  in  positive  friendly  relations 
with  Elias  Hicks.  His  father  was  a  builder  of  houses,  and 
was  reputed  in  his  trade  to  be  a  man  of  marked  and  peculiar 
integrity.  The  common  schools  gave  Walt  Whitman  his  only 
technical  instruction.  By  happy  gradation  he  was  printer, 
country  school-teacher,  writer  for  newspapers  and  magazines, 
participant  in  the  largest  practical  activities  of  natural  culture — 
the  wholesome  air  of  immediate  experience.  As  a  boy  of  nine- 
teen, he  established  The  Long  Islander  in  Huntington,  his  native 
town.  After  celebrating  its  golden  birthday,  this  weekly  journal 
is  still  a  regular  visitor.  Follow  him  in  the  drift  of  his  joyous 
freedom,  as  he  absorbs  the  great  cities,  and  passes  not  only  un- 
scathed and  unsoiled,  but  with  astonishing  spiritual  increase, 
through  their  barbarisms — as  he  accepts  the  significance  of  all 


WALT  WHITMAN:  POET  AND  PHILOSOPHER  AND  MAN. 


203 


their  horror,  squalor,  injustice,  equally  with  their  populou-iness, 
beauty,  splendor,  and  virtue — their  light  and  shade,  placidity 
and  storm.  No  spot  in  this  measureless  garden  went  untouched  ; 
the  good  and  the  bad  were  equally  his  demesne — perhaps  the 
evil  his  more  incessant  companion,  attracting  him  by  the  very 
bitterness  of  its  necessity.  We  are  told  that  his  magnetism  was 
as  full  and  round  and  potent  then  as  in  his  more  mellow  old  age ; 
that  he  rescued  and  elevated  tlie  degraded  and  oppressed ;  that 
no  political,  social,  religious  aspiration,  no  matter  what  its  color, 
nor  whether  his  literal  agreement  could  be  given  to  it,  went 
altogether  without  his  friendly  examination  and  respect ;  that  he 
accepted  the  tribute  of  libraries  and  museums,  of  books  and 
pictures  and  curios  and  antiques  ;  that  he  loved  Homer,  Shak- 
spere,  Ossian — would  pay  his  respects  to  reviews,  improvising 
books  from  leaves  which  contained  cherished  essays,  so  as  the 
more  easily  to  provide  reading-matter  for  his  travels  afoot ;  that 
he  affected  pilots,  deck-hands,  transportation  men,  almost  in 
mass  the  creatures  of  movement,  serving  on  cars,  boats,  in  the 
postal  service,  who  symbolized  the  flowing  and  creative  char- 
acter of  our  racial  life.  Tlie  peculiar  genius  of  "  Leaves  of 
Grass  "  was  prepared  for  and  birthed  in  the  midst  of  these  shift- 
ing scenes,  so  that  when  in  future  years  pen  and  paper  became 
Whitman's  agents  of  communication  it  was  not  his  part  to  set 
out  on  an  expedition  into  strange  territory,  but  to  revoyage — to 
reflect  old  experience,  not  to  make  or  form  anew.  He  shared 
in  the  political  life  of  the  pre-war  times,  after  an  appropriate 
non-partisan  fashion.  He  was  a  born  lover  of  the  drama  and 
of  music.  All  through  his  writings  and  speech  are  scattered 
allusions  to  the  actors  and  singers.  What  he  describes  as  his 
debt  to  Alboni  and  the  elder  Booth  almost  transcends  belief. 

In  1847  3nd  thereabouts  we  find  him  editing  the  Eagle,  in 
Brooklyn.  Two  years  later,  accompanied  by  his  young  brother 
Jeff,  he  entered  upon  his  Southern  tour,  working  and  writing, 
observing  the  current  life,  responding  to  the  impress  of  man  and 
scene.  He  returned  to  Brooklyn  in  1851,  where  he  started  and 
for  a  year  controlled  the  Freeman.  Again  a  twist  in  the  fates, 
again  a  change  of  occupation — now  to   take  up  an  ancestral 


MR| 


IN  RE   WALT   WHITMAN. 


line :  to  become  carpenter  and  builder.  He  was  highly  suc- 
cessful in  this  choice,  which,  e  says,  threatened  to  make  him 
rich  ;  but  he  eventually  abandoned  all  its  glittering  prospects  for 
two  reasons,  these  being,  first,  his  deep-rooted  distaste  for 
material  accumulation,  and,  second,  the  fact  that  "  Leaves  of 
Grass"  was  at  last  coming  into  practical  mental  consistence  and 
required  his  immediate  application.  Now  the  book :  the  year 
1855,  the  poems  only  twelve,  the  public  derision  and  outcry 
everywhere  tremendous.  He  had  scarcely  expected  a  greeting 
in  such  terms:  he  had  rather  anticipated  inattention.  But  he 
deliberately  resolved  to  persevere. 

In  1862  his  brother  George  was  wounded  at  Fredericksburg. 
Walt  hastened  thither,  found  the  injured  man  in  no  serious  con- 
dition, lingered  about  the  camp,  went  to  Washington  with  some 
wounded  Brooklyn  soldiers,  whom  he  nursed,  and  without  de- 
sign, but  by  natural  sympathy  and  easy  transition,  found  him- 
self occupied  with  the  army  hospital  work  which  has  become  an 
immortal  integer  of  his  fame.  It  is  matter  of  interest  no  less 
than  of  amusement  to  observe  how  studiously  Whittier  (to  quote 
but  one  name)  speaks  of  Whitman's  concern  and  affection  and 
labor  for  the  soldiers  and  ignores  "  Leaves  of  Grass." 

The  detail  of  the  years  from  1862  to  1873  has  been  much  ex- 
ploited both  by  writers  upon  Whitman,  and  by  Whitman  himself 
in  "Specimen  Days"  and  in  detached  prose  articles.  Dr. 
Bucke  quotes  samples  of  Whitman's  correspondence  at  this 
period.  Some  day,  when  the  yellowed  letters  now  fastened 
together  by  odd  pieces  of  tape  in  Whitman's  room  are  given 
to  the  world,  there  will  be  presented  the  rarest  portraiture  of 
our  war  possible  outside  of  "  Drum  Taps." 

Whitman  had  a  preliminary  physical  break-down  in  1864,  but 
a  trip  north,  away  from  the  anxious  and  malarious  scenes  of  the 
hospitals,  effected  a  temporary  return  to  health.  About  this 
time  he  was  given  a  clerkship  in  the  Interior  Department.  It 
was  no  misfortune  that  the  head  of  the  department  happened  to  be 
a  narrow  pietist  and  politician  who  summarily  ejected  Whitman 
upon  discovering  that  he  was  the  author  of  "  Leaves  of  Grass. '^ 
But  for  this  coupled  stupidity  and  injustice,  we  should  never  have 


WALT  WHITMAN:  POET  AND  PHILOSOPHER  AND  MAN.      205 

had  O'Connor's  magnificent  eulogium  and  philippic — which  is 
to  imagine  the  world  bereft  of  what  Whitman  refers  to  as  "  in 
respects"  its  choicest  combination  of  passion  and  learning  and 
perfect  prose.  Instantly  appointed  to  a  clerkship  in  the  Attor- 
ney-General's Office,  Whitman  remained  without  further  change 
till  1873,  from  which  year  of  paralysis  he  has  never  been  able 
to  pursue  any  continuous  daily  imperative  task. 

While  in  Washington,  Whitman  at  first  sustained  himself  by 
correspondence  for  Northern  papers,  Henry  J.  Raymond  being 
particularly  friendly.  Much  of  his  income  from  the  clerkships, 
along  with  various  Northern  contributions,  went  into  the  service 
of  the  army  patients. 

Whitman's  near  intimacies  during  the  decade  in  Washington 
were  with  Burroughs  and  O'Connor.  He  had  close  friendly  as- 
sociation with  Peter  Doyle,  a  railroad-man,  who  had  neither 
professional  nor  scholarly  interests.  I  have  known  no  richer 
treat  than  an  hour's  talk  with  O'Connor  or  Burroughs  when  either 
was  in  the  humor  to  review  the  remarkable  comradeship  they 
shared  in  Washington. 

The  paralytic  attack  of  1873  proved  really  the  culmination  and 
summing-up  of  many  encroaching  previous  attacks,  and  was  the 
fruit  of  Whitman's  hospital  labors,  too  long  persisted  in,  over  a 
period  of  four  strenuous  years.  He  was  on  his  way  to  a  resort  on 
the  New  Jersey  sea-coast,  when,  suffering  a  severe  reverse  in 
Philadelphia,  he  was  conveyed  to  Camden,  where  he  took  up  his 
residence.  His  health  there  has  been  fluctuating.  But  after  the 
first  two  or  three  years  hr;  resumed  and  maintained  a  certain  vigor 
and  strength  which,  until  1888,  protected  him  against  the  more 
painful  sacrifices  of  freedom  and  labor.  At  different  times  he 
issued  forth  from  tiiis  Camden  nest  for  long  or  short  flights — 
into  the  pines,  down  to  Timber  Creek,  west  as  far  as  Denver, 
north  into  the  Canadas,  to  Long  Island,  to  New  York  City.  He 
went  to  Boston  in  1883  to  supervise  the  issue  of  the  Osgood 
edition  of  "  Leaves  of  Grass."  He  has  lectured  sun(*  y  times 
upon  Lincoln,  and  written  at  intervals  for  magazines  and  papers. 
His  life  has  been  quiet,  undisturbed  even  by  literary  tempests  in 
teapots.    He  has  published    additions  to  his   books — his  latest, 


-i 


2o6 


7^-  RE   WALT  WHITMAN. 


"  Nov2mber  Boughs" — and  has  collected  and  is  prepared  to 
issue  a  further,  perhaps  final  volume,  ^  poetic  and  prose  melange, 
within  the  next  six  months. 

These  crude  glimpses  of  Walt  Whitman's  career  on  its  statisti- 
cal side  serve  to  show  the  expansive  structure  of  his  genius.  He 
has  never  been  content  with  what  one  class  or  one  sect  or  one 
party  or  merely  superficial  power  and  knowledge  may  show.  He 
has  met  with  and  possessed  America  on  the  side  of  her  cohesion 
and  unity.  In  the  early  years  a  dweller  in  town  and  city,  on 
sea-shore,  farm,  and  street,  a  teacher  in  common  schools,  a  writer 
on  journals,  a  dreamer  with  books,  a  companion  of  low  and  high, 
a  wanderer  in  untrod  ways,  North  and  South,  he  compassed  the 
full  circle  of  active  factors  which  belong  to  the  making  of  this 
new  nation.  Unlik  .  most  of  the  poets,  he  has  never  had  a  profes- 
sional chair,  never  enjoyed  the  repose  and  ease  of  a  study,  never 
been  a  stay-at-home  or  a  man  oracular  of  proprieties  and  forms. 
Comprehend  these  fe.-'tures,  remember  the  appellant  and  sacred 
character  of  the  hospital  years,  take  in  the  patient  faith  of  the  long 
period  of  his  physical  disability,  trace  with  sufficient  confidence 
the  inspirations  which  have  haloed  his  passage,  and  the  purpose 
and  courage  of  his  history  become  manifest. 

III. 

But  if  vVhitman's  life  has  expressed  a  peculiar  fla.or  and  drawn 
its  meanings  from  other  than  the  usual  swim  and  courtesies  of 
affairs,  it  must  be  that  his  is  a  creative  individuality.  And  he  in 
fact  initiates  a  peculiar  type.  Regard  introductively  the  breadth 
of  his  manhood.  Physically,  morally,  spiritually,  he  is  and  has 
been  large  and  free.  His  corporeal  two  hundred  pounds  is  tallied 
on  every  side  by  the  posture  of  person  and  spirit.  In  days  of 
perfect  health  he  must  have  been  of  superb  stature,  for  even  now 
the  indication  of  symmetry  is  without  flaw.  His  head  has  a 
noble  weight,  ease,  and  repose.  To  unite  such  strength  and 
mass  with  such  control  and  movement  implies  exceptional  adjust- 
ment. The  always-opened  shirt-front  discloses  the  neck  and 
breast.  Hand  and  arm  are  large  and  well  formed.  I  have  never 
known  an  artist  to  leave  him  disappointed  in  any  one  of  these 


11  V 


WALT  WHITMAN:  POET  AND  PHILOSOPHER  AND  MAN. 


207- 


physical  features.     Constructively,  they  answer  to  an  almost  ideal 
standard.     It  is  true,  the  lameness  of  recent  years  has  served  to- 
detract  from  the  emphasis  of  the  first  impression,  but  a  brief  stay 
in  his  room,  and  the  silent  witness  which  reminiscence  every- 
where throws  out  in  voice  and  gesture,  speedily  convince.     I 
have  yet  to  find  one  among  the  strangers  I  have  taken  to  see 
Whitman  who  has  not  confessed  that  he  realized  the  presence  of 
subtler  forces  which  haunted  him  in  after-days.     The  long  hair 
and  beard,  the  large  dreamy  eye,  the  nose  and  lips,  a  voice  which 
plays  with  all  shades  of  tone  and  color — the  breeze  and  tempest 
and  rainbow  of  speech — everything  artless  and  unschooled,  unite- 
to  the  disaster  of  criticism.     Here,  too,  are  traits  of  great  sweet- 
ness.    Critics  in  earlier  days  of  "  Leaves  of  Grass" — and  the 
echo  of  these  accusations  is  not  altogether  lost — were  very  specific 
in  description  of  the  rowdyism  of  its  author.     Walt  Whitman, 
they  said,  being  what  he  was — a  consort  for  loafers  and  prosti- 
tutes, and  no  more — could  scarcely  be  expected  to  rise  above 
himself  in  his  books.     Now  that  we  honor  him  for  his  universal 
associations,  no  gibe  can  be  other  than  a  further  note  to  his- 
merit.     It  was  the  necessity  of  the  man  that  he  should  proffer 
this  sunny  hospitality.     So  far  as  body  will  bear  the  strain,  all- 
are  welcome  at  his  door.     But  pretence,  or  glitter,  or  fame, 
pride  of  name  or  place,  need  at  no  time  expect  a  special  saluta- 
tion.    If  the  laborer  from  the  street  or  the  beggar  or  the  criminal* 
bring  the  true  message  of  self,  secreting  no  honest  trait  in  an 
effort  to  impress  or  attract  or  overawe.  Whitman  will  respond- 
with  word  and  act.     For  the  moment  this  true  sinner  will  confuse- 
all  the  false  saints  in  the  calendar  of  pilgrims.     Here,  then,  is- 
the  open  door — the  secret  passage,  which  after  all  has  no  mys- 
teries but  to  the  veiled  and  the  blind.      His   is   the   way   of 
vigorous   individuality :    to  hail  all  with  infinite  patience   and 
affection  ;  to  utter  no  harsh  words  to  friends  whose  service  about 
him  may  halt  or  stumble  ;  to  discuss  contemporaries  with  freedom, 
yet  to  save  at  all  times  the  hyper-censuring  phrase;  to  endure 
pain  with  resignation,  to  confront  show  with  simplicity,  to  win 
hate  by  love,  to  give  his  cause  fire  and  impersonality.     What  can 
rebuff  a  faith  which  defies  school  and  creed  in  the  interest  of  that- 


i$oB 


IN  HE   WALT   WHITMAN. 


d[ 


'  ^ 


nature  without  which  scholars  and  priests,  whatever  their  gaudy 
possessions,  would  go  houseless  forever?  Whitman  has  always 
delighted  to  roam  the  streets.  As  long  as  strength  remained  he 
went  afloat  on  that  hastening  sea.  Driven  to  chair  and  attend- 
ance, he  still  enjoys  what  air  and  river  and  the  lives  of  cities 
bestow.  ' 

Whitman  vindicates  the  declaration  that  in  all  the  essentials 
of  culture  nature  provides  tlic  jirofoundest  resources.  School, 
church,  social  respectability,  were  but  the  minor,  almost  forbid- 
•den,  elements  to  his  making,  except  as  they  stream  unheralded 
into  him  and,  in  common  with  the  whole  area  of  life  and  phe- 
nomena, are  adopted  in  his  philosophy.  His  teacher  has  been 
the  joy  and  despair,  the  calm  and  passion,  the  belief  and  denial, 
the  love  and  hate,  the  virtue  and  vice,  the  purity  and  squalor, 
of  peace  and  war.  New  York,  Washington,  New  Orleans,  Phil- 
adelphia, Quebec,  Boston,  Denver — these,  with  their  unity  and 
contrariety,  have  passaged  and  tilled  the  field.  America — the  es- 
sential America — that  is,  the  toilers,  soldiers,  sailors,  railroad- 
men, laborers,  all  artisans,  equally  with  classes  called  learned 
and  professions  called  respectable — has  mentored  and  sustained, 
and  finally  will  confirm  him.  Such  tuition  has  gathered  about 
no  other  man.  No  college  would  have  done  other  than  injure 
him.  No  perpetual  lien  laid  by  a  single  calling  would  have 
spared  or  softened  his  ruin.  He  belongs  to  city  and  prairie,  to 
opera  and  brothel,  to  jail  and  prison,  to  years  before  war,  to  war, 
to  after-suffering,  to  labor  and  to  the  pen,  to  boats  that  sail,  to 
movement,  to  liberty.  If  Whitman  is  in  any  manner  set  apart 
from  puppetry,  from  echoes  lost  in  their  last  refinements,  it  is 
by  virtue  of  this  inherent  genius  which  went  straight  through  all 
cries  of  sect  and  model,  past  all  danger-signs,  across  deepest 
streams  and  impenetrable  fastnesses — the  drag-way  and  wreck 
of  mediocrity  and  sham — to  primal  spirit  and  law.  This  faith- 
fulness elevates  his  old  age  as  it  inspired  his  youth.  It  blesses 
him  with  gentleness,  fortitude,  content ;  it  passes  into  the  folds 
of  his  dress,  governs  his  appetite,  connects  the  clean  body  and 
the  clean  soul ;  it  presides  over  his  reverence  for  ancestry,  his 
love  of  family  and  companions,  his  enduring  hail  and  kiss  for 


WALT  WllITMAX:  I'OIJT  AND  PJIILOSOl'llhli  AND  MAN. 


ao9 


outcasl  and  victim  ;  it  suggests  morality,  imposes <hecr,  restrains 
intemperance  ;  and,  crowning  tiie  lofty  summit,  it  lienors  man 
for  the  infinitude  of  tlie  processes  which  have  worked  the  mystery 
and  darkness  '  ito  love  and  dawn. 

IV. 

"  Txaves  of  Grass  "  started  in  almost  universal  displeasure.  It 
f)lio(  ked  literary  and  sex  traditions.  Two  things,  at  least,  in  its 
own  plane  and  theory,  were  necessary  to  its  life.  It  needed  to 
reflect  the  broadening  spirit  of  our  new  age  and  new  land.  The 
rhyme,  the  convention,  the  formal  measure,  insisted  upon  by  old 
literary  codes,  were  unequal  to  the  current  conditions.  Whit- 
man made  his  own  vehicle.  His  book  was  to  get  as  close  to 
nature  as  her  reserves  would  permit.  The  natural  was  to  reflect 
the  healthy  and  the  abiding.  Sex,  under  this  treatment,  must 
reclaim  its  heritage.  No  middle-age  monastic  coiitemi)t  could 
longer  be  visited  upon  motherhood,  the  body,  or  any  corporeal 
functions.  To  dare  so  dire  a  thraldom,  to  strike  so  near  the 
throne,  seemed  to  be  to  dare  everything.  No  anti  subjectivist 
could  delight  in  "  Leaves  of  Grass,"  for  that  one  volume  un- 
curtains the  frankest  confession  of  life  found  in  annal  or  story. 
Who  touches  this,  the  author  himself  teaches,  touches  not  art  nor 
intellect,  but  a  man.  Yet  there  was  no  sign,  as  in  Amiel,  of  the 
disease  of  introspection.  The  whole  work  precipitates  the  man- 
liest salutations. 

"Leaves  of  Grass"  has  passed  through  about  ten  editions. 
"  Sjiecimen  Days  "  appeared  in  1883.  But  t lie  whole  force  of 
protest  has  centered  about  the  poems.  They  outrage  so  much 
that  has  been  held  sacred,  they  so  invade  the  ])recincts  of  art 
with  a  natural  equipment  which  art  may  hate  but  cannot  de- 
stroy, that  the  conflict  is  not  surprising  and  ran  have  but  one 
issue.  As  Whitman  has  added,  period  after  period,  to  this  vol- 
ume, it  could  be  perceived  that  he  constructed  upon  a  coherent 
plan.  No  chance-building  was  evident ;  indeed,  no  building  at 
all.  Whitman  simply  reasoned  that  if  "  Leaves  of  Grass"  was 
to  reflect  life,  the  prevailing  quality  of  its  utterance  must  be,  not 
architecture,  but  spontaneity.  I  have  been  told  by  various  in- 
14 


2IO 


IN  HE    WALT   WmniAN. 


Ill 


dependent  scholars  that  they  coiikl  think  of  no  phase  of  Ameri- 
can society  missed  from  the  circle  of  description.  Nor  is  there 
a  poem  in  the  book  which  does  not  bear  unmistakably  upon  and 
reveal  the  period  of  its  composition.  "Sands  at  Seventy," 
added  in  1888,  may  easily  be  specified,  along  with  the  war 
poems,  the  early  "Starting  from  Paumanok,"  "Song  of  My- 
self,"  "Children  of  Adam,"  and  so  on.  The  new  pages  will 
contribute  tht  same  evidence.  No  element  is  omitted  from  the 
transcript:  all  flows  in  happy  sequence,  in  exposition  of  a  typical 
person,  moved  by  and  moving,  acted  upon  and  battling  with, 
the  conditions  of  the  dominant  civilization  and  of  each  emer- 
gence. Through  this  person  America,  democracy,  the  future, 
summons  and  dispenses.  The  necessary  completeness  of  our 
nature  is  repeated  in  marvellous  illustration  :  as  of  its  trial-voy- 
agings  in  first  years,  as  of  its  individuality  in  "  Song  of  Myself," 
as  of  its  sex  in  "  Children  of  Adam,"  as  of  its  comradeship  in 
"  Calamus,"  and  so  in  special  traits  through  the  four  hundred 
pages.  To  glorify  sex,  to  attest  identity,  to  enclose  religions  by 
religion,  to  bring  near  to  man  the  circuitous  forces  which  he  may 
operate  for  great  ends,  in  himself,  in  society,  in  star  and  sun,  au 

fragments  of  the  message. 

V. 

Was  the  new  singer  heard  ?  Had  this  strange  voice  any 
vibrant  call  for  its  neighbors  ?  There  was  no  long  wait  ere 
Emerson  had  passed  in  his  vital  gift.  Thoieauwas  quick  to  per- 
ceive that  there  was  something  high  in  the  new  note.  At  that 
moment  few  others  were  ready  to  speak.  But  one  by  one  re- 
markable men  gathered,  read,  inspected,  enjoyed,  glorified,  the 
denounced  prophet.  Emerson  and  Thoreau  several  times  visited 
him  at  his  home  in  Brooklyn.  O'Connor,  Burroughs,  Bucke, 
Ingersoll,  Kennedy,  areadditionsof  later  times.  Mrs.  Gilchrist  was 
among  the  first  to  raise  protest  for  him  in  England.  The  friendli- 
ness of  Tennyson  has  been  indicated  by  letter  and  message. 
Swinburne's  original  impulse  was  undoubtedly  towards  approval. 
"To  Walt  Whitman  in  America,"  is  as  warm  as  average  or 
even  more  satisfying  poetic  fires  ever  burn.  But  his  violent  re- 
traction  confuses    all    attempt   at  explanation.      Karl    Knortz 


WALT  WHITMAN:  POET  AND  PHILOSOPHER  AND  MAN.      21 1 


and  T.  W.  RoUeston  have  together  made  a  translation  of 
selected  poems  into  the  Gorman.  Rudolf  Schmidt  has  ren- 
dered "  Democratic  Vistas"  in  the  Danish.  There  have  been 
fugitive  French  translations.  Gabriel  Sarrazin  has  written  a 
splendid  series  of  essays  on  English  and  American  poets,  in 
which  Whitman  is  figured  with  glowing  pride  and  power.  I 
think  Whitman  regards  this  estimate,  linked  with  what  O'Con- 
nor and  Ingersoll  have  said  on  our  side  of  the  water — not  omit- 
ting Burroughs'  and  Bucke's  biographies  and  Mrs.  Gilchrist's 
early  prophetic  recognitions — as  perhaps  constituting  to  date 
the  best  and  most  adequate  explanation  of  himself.  Symonds, 
Forman,  Rossetti,  Rhys,  Carpenter,  in  England,  have  done  him 
all  the  offices  of  comradeship.  Italy  and  Russia  register  partial 
translations.  The  list  could  be  prolonged.  Gradually,  indi- 
viduals, groups,  periodicals,  have  passed  from  the  stage  of  oppo- 
sition to  the  plane  of  respectful  attention.  The  Whitman  parody 
no  longer  sits  in  judgment.  There  have  been  fragmentary  trans- 
lations into  divers  unmentioned  tongues — certainly  into  the 
Spanish  and  Hungarian,  In  his  darkest  years — notably,  1873  to 
1877 — Whitman's  best,  most  efficient,  support  came  from  Eng- 
land. The  American  magazines  have  been,  with  but  few  excep- 
tions, substantially  hostile.  But  in  reviews,  in  literary  discus- 
sions, among  especially  the  thinking  young  people,  women  full 
as  much  as  men,  signs  appear  of  the  most  spontaneous  accept- 
ance— an  enthusiasm  which  unquestionably  will  give  Whitman 
the  future.  The  slow  certainty  with  which  this  light  penetrates 
unwonted  spots  proves  its  efficacy.  Whitman  has  been  willing 
to  wait.  Long  ago  he  burned  all  his  ships.  His  phrenology 
has  "caution"  marked  at  "6  to  7" — which  is  high — and 
he  has  never  retaced  a  single  step.  The  conviction  which 
cradled  the  babe  houses  and  pillows  and  sustains  the  old  man. 
After  the  passion  of  darkness  and  war,  during  which  he  was 
harassed  by  enemies  and  co-operated  with  by  as  high  devotion 
and  valor  as  ever  distinguished  an  heroic  past,  this  Democrat, 
mounted  on  highest  ground,  the  sunrise  at  last  in  his  face,  re- 
affirms the  promised  land. 


i,-i'/i,;i. 


/ 


■■■piMi 


TO  WALT  WHITMAN. 


m 


(aia) 


N'oi'R  liiiR'ly  inusp,  unrniincnird  willi  rhyme, 

IliT  lirtir  uiililli'tod,  her  fcol  iiiislioil, 

Naki'd  mid  nut  nsli;inu'il  dciunnds  of  Cmd 

No  cuvi'iin^;  for  lin-  licMiily's  yoiilh  or  prime. 

(lud  but  with  thouKlit,  nH  Hpncc  ix  cind  with  lime, 

Or  i)olh  witli  worlds  where  man  and  aiijjcls  plod, 

She  r\iiis  in  joy,  maj^nilii'i-nliy  odd, 

Knj;j;odly  wreathed  with  llowcrs  of  every  clime. 

And  yon  to  whom  lier  hronlli  is  sweeter  far 

'Than  ilioieisi  allar  ol  the  m;nlyred  rose 

More  deeply  feel  inoiti\lity's  \inrcst 

'I'han  poets  horn  lieneiith  a  happiel-  stnr, 

liecaiise  die  pathos  of  your  jjrand  rejiosc 

Siiows  that  all  earth  lias  throbbed  within  yo\ir  breast. 

Alliett  Edmun>i  I.iinnister. 


QUAKER  TRAITS  OF  WALT  WHITMAN. 

Jly  n//.UAAl  m.O/lAJi  h/iJV.\fi/>l'. 


It  is  n  riirioiis  fact  that  the  three  chief  clomorrats  of  tlic  New 
World  shodUl  bo  immediately  or  remotely  of  (,)uakcr  aiic  fstry  — 
Whitman,  WhittitT,  and  Al)raham  l-in<c)ln.  Yet  this  need  nut 
surprise  us  ;  for  from  wliat  docs  (Jnakcrism  historically  spring  '•' 
not  from  a  deci)-scatctl,  (iucn(  hless  passion  for  freedom  ?  llow 
strongly  markeil  the  (Quaker  traits  arc  in  Walt  Wliitnum  no  one 
hitherto  has  noticed  or  at  least  set  forth  in  print.  His  best 
traits,  1  believe,  come  through  hi:i  dear  mother — a  woman  of 
rare  force  of  charr.c  tcr  and  native  sweetness  of  disposition  ;  and 
her  mother,  Amy  Williams,  was  a  member  of  the  Society  of 
Friends. 

Walt  Whitman  always  falls  back  upon  ihc /unrr  Zt\'/if,  the 
intuitions  of  the  soul  (a  Quaker  doctrine),  as,  c.  i,',,  in  his  famotis 
conversation  with  Kmerson  on  Uostoii  Connnon.  It  is,  perhaps, 
the  Quaker  blood  in  hiuj  that  makes  him  satisfied  with  the  placid 
life  of  Philadelpliia.     Other  Quaker  elements  in  him  arc  : 

Sflf-respfct. 

Kesptct  for  every  otlur  human  f>fini^.  Quakerism  is  extremely 
democratic  ;  any  man  or  woman  may  be  in  direct  communica- 
tion with  God;  hence  Whitman's  basilar  doctrine  of  comrade- 
ship, ecjuality,  love  of  the  average  man,  and  his  exalting  of 
woman  to  perfect  equality  with  man. 

Jfis  sincerity  and  plainness. 

His  placidity.  Freedom  from  all  passionate  grief  (though 
this  comes  partly  from  his  paternal  Dutch  or  Hollandisch  an- 
cestry). 

His  silence.  If  he  can't  do  what  you  want  him  to  do,  he 
doesn't  say  he  is  sorry  :  he  simply  is  silent. 

(213) 


/// 


I 


if 

1 

Hn 

II 

I 

ll 

\     ■ 

11 

i 

ai4 


/AT  RE  WALT  WHITMAN. 


Unconventionaliim.  No  bowing  to  audience ;  wears  his  hat  in 
the  house  if  he  wants  to  (as  do  Quakers)  ;  neither  takes  nor  gives 
titles  of  honor  or  respect. 

Belief  in  the  ri)^ht  of  free  speech. 

Benevolence  ami  friendliness. 

Deep  religiousness.     The  soul  is  his  constant  theme. 

One  cannot  say  that  Quakerism  has  done  more  than  to  some- 
what perceptibly  ////.<,v  Whitman's  writings.  The  dithyrambic 
fiber  and  superhuman  strength  of  them  are  drawn  from  a  deeper 
fount  tlian  that  wliich  welled  forth  from  the  soul  of  leather- 
breeched  cobbler  Fox.  And  so  is  the  passion-flower  bloom  of 
Whittier's  soul — the  fiery  attar  of  his  rustic  verse.  In  Whit- 
man's case  the  Quaker  survivals  are  chiefly  visible  in  his  per- 
sonal habits  and  social  temperament.  But  they  are  none  the  less 
interesting. 

I  think  the  Quaker  traits  in  him  grow  stronger  every  year. 
Tiie  volcanic  strength  of  mature  manhood  being  passed,  he 
reverts  tenderly  to  the  maternal  teachings:  they  well  up  spon- 
taneously now  (a  tenderer  feeling,  more  Christlike  spirit  of 
benevolence,  if  possible).  The  sun's  glare  has  left  the  land- 
scape, and  the  myriad  quiet  lights  of  heaven  come  out  one  by 
one. 


WALT  WHITMAN. 


By  KARL  KNORTZ:  TrantUttd  from  iMf  Otrman  by  ALFRED  FORMAN  »nd 
KiaiAKO  MAURICE  BUCKS, 


The  first  volume  of  Putnam's  Monthly  contained  a  sympathetic 
Christmas  Eve  story,  referring  to  the  time  of  the  American  Civil 
War,  which  bore  the  title,  "  The  Carijenter."  In  it  was  pre- 
sented to  us  a  family,  assembled  at  the  hearth  on  the  festival  of 
the  holy  evening,  whose  conversation  turned  principally  on  the 
terrors  of  the  war  and  the  conjectured  plans  of  the  generals. 
The  youngest  daughter  of  the  house,  who  took  no  interest  in  this 
conversation,  and  whose  thoughts  were  certainly  more  occupied 
with  the  anticipated  gifts  and  the  probable  bringer  of  the  same, 
interrupted  suddenly  the  warlike  conversation  with  the  niiive 
question  as  to  what  trade  Jesus  really  followed  ?  When,  now, 
the  old  farmer  had  answered  this  question,  and  the  maiden  had 
expressed  the  wish  that  she  might  some  day  see  the  Good  Car- 
l)enter  of  Nazareth  (for  she  would  surely  not  be  afraid  of  him), 
there  suddenly  entered  the  room  a  stranger — a  man  with  gray 
beard  and  hair,  but  with  a  youthfully  fresh  face — who  held  out 
a  plane  which  he  had  found  by  chance  in  the  immediate  vicinity 
of  the  farm  house.  They  bade  him  welcome,  directed  him  to  a 
seat  at  the  comfortable  fireside,  and  inquired  among  other  things 
as  to  his  name  and  occupation — without,  however,  giving  special 
attention  to  his  answers,  and  without  giving  him  an  opportunity 
to  be  explicit,  so  that,  since  he  had  introduced  himself  as  of  that 
calling,  they  simply  called  him  Mr.  Carpenter.  The  maiden  ap- 
proached him  trustfully  and  whispered  in  his  ear  that  she  knew 
who  he  was,  and  it  appeared  toeveryn.emberof  the  family  as  if  they 
had  in  their  presence  an  old  friend  ;  accordingly,  they  all  chatter 
with  him  unrestrainedly  on  important  and  unimportant  private 

_  (2IS)  - 


•■•■ammmitlmAxmi  i'  juii 


2l6 


IN  RE   WALT  WHITMAN. 


t    ■ 


■'  i 


matters.  The  stranger  showed  himself  worthy  of  this  trust  by  as- 
suming the  part  of  a  wise  counsellor,  and  secured  anew  by  pru- 
dent means,  which  saved  offence  to  either  party,  the  tlireatened 
domestic  peace  of  the  family,  after  which,  giving  and  receiving 
a  blessing,  he  took  his  departure. 

Every  one  who  at  the  time  cursorily  read  this  story  thought 
that  its  author  merely  intended  to  present  in  that  "  faithful  Eck- 
hart  "  the  founder  of  the  Christian  religion  upon  his  mysterious 
Christmas  eve  rounds.  But  whoever  carefully  examined  the 
striking  talk  of  that  stranger — his  constant  use  of  unaccustomed 
and  characteristic  expressions,  his  sentences  epigrammalically 
pointed  and  drenched  with  an  original  but  sympathetic  perfume 
of  poetry — and  who,  at  the  same  time,  was  sufficiently  acquainted 
with  American  literature  to  know  to  whom  these  individualities 
of  speech  pointed  before  all  other  writers,  became  immediately 
convinced  that  it  was  a  case  of  well  calculated  and  adroit  mysti- 
fication. Those  who  so  approached  the  picture  would  perceive  that 
its  author,  VV.  D.  O'Connor,  so  well  known  for  his  admirable 
literary  style,  was  seeking  here  to  erect  a  monument  to  his  re- 
vered friend,  the  fiercely  attacked  author  of  "  Leaves  of  Grass," 
and  at  the  same  time  to  characterize  his  humanitarian  work. 

In  this  "  Carpenter"  there  is  presented  the  poet  Walt  Whit- 
man, to  whose  life  and  works  we  are  now  about  to  devote  a  por- 
tion of  this  evening.  .  .  . 

The  fact  that  "  Leaves  of  Grass"  has  been  so  variously  judged 
— called  by  one  critic  the  offspring  of  an  unhinged  brain,  and 
by  another  one  of  the  mightiest  poetic  works  of  all  times — shows 
that  the  reading  of  it  is  anything  but  an  easy  labor,  and  that  for 
its  proper  appreciation  something  much  more  than  a  superficial 
literary  and  philosophical  preparation  is  imperatively  necessary. 

At  first  the  form  or  formlessness  of  "  Leaves  of  Grass  "  has  a 
repelling  effect,  for  Whitman  declares  energetic  war  against  any 
received  "  ars  poetica,"  which  he  scornfully  designates  as 
"  poetic  machinery  ;"  and  he  says,  not  altogether  without  justifi- 
cation, that  for  the  most  part  only  mediocre  poets  hide  them- 
selves behind  iambic,  trochaic,  and  dactylic  verse- measuring,  in 
order  to  conceal  their  poverty  of  original  thouglit  by  artful  and 


WALT  WHITMAN. 


217 


artificial  rhymes.  In  his  opinion,  the  time  has  come  when  tlie 
external  difiFerence  between  poetry  and  prose  may  be  wiped  out, 
and  when  the  poet  should  be  his  own  lawgiver  and  provide  his 
original  thoughts  with  a  form  corresponding  to  them. 

The  free  lines  which  he  uses,  and  which  are  to  a  Tennysonian 
poem  as  a  symphony  of  Beethoven  is  to  a  song  of  Abt's,  are  at 
all  events  most  fitting  to  his  ideas,  siiice  the  storm,  for  example, 
does  not  roar  in  regular  time.  But  yet  they  are  not  altogether 
without  rhythmic  swing;  when  he  pictures  lofty  emotions  of 
the  soul,  his  inborn  speech-instinct  forces  him  to  a  certain  met- 
rical form  which  exerts  an  irresistible  spell  upon  the  reader. 
When,  on  the  other  hand,  he  is  ventilating  ethical  and  pliilo- 
sophical  problems,  or  when  he  (as  he  so  often  does)  is  enumerat- 
ing the  countries,  rivers,  and  nations  of  the  world  in  the  manner 
of  a  concise  hand-lexicon,  ornamenting  such  catalogue  here  and 
there  with  the  rich  charm  of  expressive  adjectives — such,  for  in- 
stance, as  those  with  which  Homer  makes  his  long  ship  catalogue 
pleasing — his  style  is  more  prosaic  even  than  the  crv  of  the  grass- 
hopper or  the  cabalistic  prose  of  the  '  'yEsthclica  in  N'uce  ' '  of  the 
^'Magus  of  the  North  " — with  which  philosophy,  moreover,  Whit- 
man has  in  common  his  obscurity  of  expression,  predilection  for 
nature,  aversion  to  antiquated  institutions,  and  much  besides. 

When  Carriere,  in  his  work,  "  The  Essence  and  the  Forms  of 
Poetry,"  says  that  "  poetic  feeling  and  perception  demand  in 
their  expression  now  rhymed  and  now  rhymeless  verse,"  and 
that  "  the  question  of  male  or  female  rhyme,  of  Sapphic  or  Al- 
caic Strophe,  is  by  no  means  an  indifferent  one,"  and  that 
"these  things  should  be  preconsidered,"  and  that  "no  par- 
ticular form  should  be  either  thoughtlessly  rejected  or  arbi- 
trarily applied,"  he  acknowledges  the  received  principle  of  our 
writers  on  poetics,  in  whose  view  the  various  ideas  must  allow 
themselves  to  be  forced  into  definite  rhythms  by  their  originators. 
When,  however,  this  resthetic  writer  says,  in  the  sentence  im- 
mediately following,  that  in  the  true  work  of  art  the  form  grows 
out  of  the  idea  and  is  its  organic  outcome,  he  is  in  contradiction 
with  himself,  for  he  there  asserts  nothing  else  than  that  the  form 
springs  out  of  tlie  idea,  and  that  therefore,  of  necessity,  there- 


''  t  i 


^i8 


IN  RE  WALT  WHITMAN. 


■must  be  as  many  forms  as  there  are  ideas — on  which  principle 
the  practice  of  Whitman  would  be  brilliantly  justified. 

When  the  impulse  toward  poetry  first  stirred  in  Whitman, 
he,  likewise,  paid  his  homage  to  rhyme.  Later,  however,  when 
by  study  and  meditation  his  spiritual  horizon  was  widened,  he 
shook  off  this  fetter  and  wrote  that  rhythmical  prose  with  which, 
for  the  rest,  the  reading  world  had  already  become  familiar  by 
means  of  the  Psalms,  Job,  Ossian,  as  well  as  by  Friedrich 
Schlegel's  translation  of  the  Ramayana. 

Far  more  disturbing  than  the  absence  of  regular  meter  is  the 
presence  of  a  number  of  Spanish  and  French  expressions  added 
to  the  scorn  of  grammar  and  the  setting  aside  of  its  rules. 
Whitman  orders  himself  as  little  after  the  prescriptions  of  the 
grammarians  as  the  primitive  forest  does  after  the  aesthetic  prin- 
<:iples  of  the  landscape  gardener.  He  very  often  transfers  the 
office  of  the  verb  to  the  noun,  or  vice  versa.  The  logical  con- 
nection of  the  separate  sentences  one  must  find  out  for  one's  self 
— not  always  an  easy  task.  Over  and  above  this,  the  difficulty 
is  increased  by  his  sparse  use  of  punctuation,  so  that  it  often 
seems  as  if  we  had  sibylline  sentences  before  us.  Sometimes, 
when  we  believe  that  we  have  at  last  grasped  the  meaning  of  a 
passage  and  found  the  Ariadne  thread  of  this  labyrinth  of 
thought,  in  the  very  next  section  of  the  verse  we  are  met  by 
new,  almost  insuperable,  difficulties,  so  that  we  often  doubt  the 
sanity  of  our  own  judgment,  or  are  inclined  to  reckon  the  poet 
a  bewilderer  of  malice  prepense.  Whitman  himself  knows  very 
well  the  difficulties  that  he  prepares  for  his  readers^  for  he  says 
toward  the  end  of  "  The  Song  of  Myself:  " 


•'  You  will  hardly  know  who  I  am  or  what  I  mean, 
But  I  shall  be  good  iiealth  to  you  nevertheless, 
And  filter  and  fiber  your  blood." 

And  adds,  so  as  not  to  frighten  his  reader  away— 


"  Failing  to  fetch  me  at  first  keep  encoar.iged, 
Missing  me  one  place  search  anotlier, 
I  s.op  somewhere  waiting  for  you." 


WALT  WHITMAN. 


219 


His  wealth  of  words — especially,  however,  of  adjectives — 
is  astounding;  but  because  he  often  gives  to  them  a  meaning 
other  than  the  current  one,  new  difficulties  again  spring  up  for 
the  reader,  and  he  who  has  abandoned  himself  to  the  illusion  of 
having  fully  mastered  the  English  language  will  often  have  to 
seek  comfort  in  "  Webster's  Unabridged." 

Uhland  once  made  the  remark  that  the  roots  of  his  poetry  lay 
in  love  for  the  people,  and  that,  therefore,  to  the  people  was  it 
dedicated.  Whitman  makes  a  like  claim  for  his  poems,  and  says 
that  they  appeal  chiefly  to  the  moral  feeling,  and  are  constituted 
as  though  the  average  man  had  himself  thought  and  shaped  them. 
But  here  he  is  judging  the  capacity  of  others  by  his  own  ;  and  this 
is  one  of  the  reasons — indeed,  the  principal  reason — why  he  has 
not,  so  far,  penetrated  the  people,  has  never  become  popular,  and 
has  found  his  disciples  only  among  the  cultured  literary  public. 
But  even  to  these  his  words  with  respect  to  the  understanding 
of  "  Leaves  of  Grass"  are  applicable: 

*'  For  these  leaves  and  me  you  will  not  understand, 
They  will  elude  you  at  first  and  still  more  afterward,  I  will  certainly  elude 

you, 
Even  while  you  should  think  you  had  unquestionably  caught  me,  behold  1 
Already  you  see  I  have  escaped  from  you." 


Every  one  who  so  far  has  ventured  on  the  reading  of  "  Leaves 
of  Grass"  has  had  the  following  experience":  After  the  perusal 
of  the  first  few  pages  it  has  seemed  to  him  that  the  book  must 
have  been  the  work  of  a  madman.  Soon,  however,  he  has  been 
suil'lcnly  arrested  by  an  original  thought  which  has  revealed  to 
him  the  meaning  of  what  he  had  so  far  read,  and  has  irresistibly 
urged  him  to  read  further.  He  has  found  himself,  then,  in  the 
condition  of  the  magician's  pupil  in  Goethe's  ballad,  who  is  im- 
able  to  free  himself  from  the  spirits  which  he  has  called  up. 
Whitman  is  himself  well  aware  of  this  peculiar  magic,  for  he  says 
frankly  and  openly : 

"  I  teach  straying  from  me,  yet  who  can  stray  from  me? 
I  follo\v  you  whoever  you  are  from  the  present  hour, 
My  words  itch  at  your  ears  till  you  understand  them." 


f- 


no 


rx  HK  n.n.r  wnrrHAX. 


The  to.uling  nl  "  l.nwps  of  Oi-aBs  "  iimy  he  «-()m|)atT(l  to  the 


nRcriil  nl   a  moimlniii.  whi'io  every  lalioiiniis  slop  is  irwan 


Int 


Willi  lunv  .unl  lasi  inatitifi  views.  Tlu-  siiininit.  Iiowcvcr,  of  litis 
spiiilmomitain  lias  ncvrf  yet  been  learhetl,  as  is  coiifessetl 
tcailily  liv  liis  niiml  aiileiit  woislii|ii»eis  ami  most  industrious 
trailers,  who  roinlort  tlieniselves  with  Ihe  tliouj^lil  ilmi  .is  Ihev 
liave  alreaiiv  i-oiu|iiereil  so  nuuiv  tlilTii  iillies.  Ilie  l('l\l,•^illin^  secrets 
will  he  yet  iinveileti  to  llieni.  Wlien  I  ont  e  i.illetl  llie  alleiition 
of  Dr.  Mm  ke.  a  ranailian  |iliysiiian,  to  some  of  the  passafirs 
wliii  1\  I  loimtl  alisoliitelv  miinlellijjiltle.  and  indulged  in  the  hope 
that  I  mifihl  ^el  what  I  lai  ked  from  that  years-lonp  intimate  of 
Whilnian.   who  was  also  the  author  of  a   liook   upon   him,   he 


niiivclv  answereil  :  "  Why,  who  can  iindersland  it  ?  it  will  lie  A 
hmidred  years,  perhaps,  before  any  one  nnilerstands  i'." 

That,  ai  all  events,  was  honestly  spoken.  Nevertheless,  Whit- 
man's obsrnrilv  is  not  bv  anv  means  to  be  exi  used,  for  the  poet 
or  philosopher  who  believes  that  he  ean  bless  the  world  with  new 
thoiiulils  should  be  rarel'iil  to  i  lothe  them  in  sm  h  hnmiage  as  at 
least  lo  niak(>  tluMii  intelligible  to  a  moderately  (  nlliired,  eo- 
tniipoi.uv.  man.''' 

In  Ihe  New  York  (ir,t/</iii  of  Novemb.-r  25111,  i-Sy^.  an  Amer- 
it  an  writer  narrates  that  it  took  !iim  seven  years  to  f>iasp  the 
jioelie  import  o(  "  Leaves  of  (liass."  |)nrin^  the  first  loin  vears 
the  book  was  for  him  a  siib)e(  1  (>f  merrimenl  and  an  example  of 
Iniman  perversity.  Pining  the  next  two  years  of  his  Whitman 
novitiate  he  ornipieil  himself  pritnip.illv  with  the  (|iiestion  as  to 
whether  behind  this  nmisnal.  primeval,  jmifile  like  speerh  no 
grain  of  poetry  mighl  bo  hidden.  Miit  only  in  t!-.e  seventh  year 
did  he  arrive  al  an  iiiiderstandin>;  either  of  the  rhythm  or  spiritual 
fonlenis  of  "Leaves  of  (trass. "  Herewith  he  confirms  our 
former  judumenl.  that  "  Leaves  of  (trass  "  is  not  a  reading  for 
Sunday  afternoon  in  a  rot  king-i  hair,  or  on  the  sofa,  and  that  in 
spite  of  nil  initiatory  dijcouragements  we  arc  irresistibly  again 
dr.iwn  to  it. 


*  Wliitmnii's  l.iiin«nge,   to  niv    tniiul.    i'^    lu'ifcclly    clnir.     Tim    tUniiailly 
'okcii  of  hv  \\\c  ll:i<;  lolcu'iu't'  (o  his  i\iei\l\inj;,  wliiih  is  olkMi    nhove  (or  he- 


IKMlll)  ilic  iv.iili  of  tlio  oiiliiimv 


ul.    -U.  M.  II. 


UAi.r  wnrvMAS. 


«9t 


K(»r  lli«'  prnper  fi|i|iri'i  i;itii»n.  iiiul  (ni  liu  ililalin^  tlu'  hIiiiIv,  of 
lliis  lionk.  Whiliiiiiii  li.is  liiiiisi'll  pmvidi'il  ns  with  two  romiueli- 
tnries-  liisi,  iianu'lv,  liis  own  lilc;  iiml,  stvcmdly,  liis  proHe 
W(»rk,  "  IH'MKK  mti«;  Vislan,"  wliii  li  t(»iiliiins,  rirlily  set  inwords 
niitl  imams,  lii^  pdlitical,  pliilnsnpliii  anti  porlic  arli<lcs  of 
lu'lii'f,  llir  nsiill  of  long  and  imintermitleiil  nicdiditioii. 

In  his  ( lianutcf  of  inspiird  American  and  imrompromising 
pfo^jiTSHlonist,  Wliilinan  demands  tlial  art,  poetry,  pliiloso|)liy 
and  edmalion  shall  be  penetrated  with  the  dennxratit  prim  i|il<' 
nnd  work  lormatixelv  on  the  Inltire.  I''(»r  the  solving  of  this 
prohlem  he  looks  <  hielly  to  the  poel,  on  whom  he  makes  the  same 
preparatory  demnmls  as  the  "  Nihehitigeli  "  poet  Jordan  (ompre- 
hensively  sets  forth  in  his  "  Kpic  IjCttcrs."  What,  however,  is 
it  that  the  Ann-rirnn  |ioe(  has  before  him?  An  energetic,  enter- 
prise-loving, people  which  can  at  least  point  to  astoimding  acrom- 
plishments  in  the  regions  of  the  practical,  but  which,  for  the  rest, 
moves  ill  such  n  dense  atmosphere  of  habitual,  almost  nvf»wpH, 
hvpoi  risy,  that  genuine  hiimanitarianisni  -lor  that  is  what 
Whitman  understands  by  the  denior  ratic  jiriiK  iple — ^has  not  yet 
really  brciken  into  view.  Mase  money-grubbing  lias  created  a 
corruption  that  sanctions  every  crime.  America,  by  the  incor- 
poration of  new  states,  has  not  grown  in  soul  ;  the  mass,  as  regards 
jiolitics,  has  become  more  fitted  for  self  government,  but  the 
nio'id,  ;«sthetir.  and  literary  results  are  exceedingly  small.  Where, 
asks  Whitman,  are  the  beautiful  youths  with  noble  manners? — 
where  the  women  and  men  who  correspond  to  our  material 
grandeur?  In  business,  in  the  (liurcli,  on  the  street,  vulgarity 
reigns  ;  the  y(»ung  men  arc  cimning.  smart,  precocious  ;  the  wfunen 
are  sickly,  padded,  painted  and  unfit  for  maternity  ;  the  men  are 
fitasf  and  dead  long  before  they  die.  American  society  is  lai  k- 
ing  ill  moral  vigor,  and  the  aspiration  to  supply  this  is  the  task 
of  the  new  lileiature,  whii  h  therefore  does  not  (opy  the  old,  nor 
order  itself  by  what  is  called  taste,  !)iit  instructs  and  enables  the 
men  on  the  basis  of  the  exac  t  sciences  and  of  actual  life  rather 
than  on  that  of  a  perverted  and  sit  k  fantasy  ;  inspires  the  youths 
to  humanitarian  endeavors,  and  redeems  the  women  from  the 
bondage  of  milli'^ery  and  frivolity.      For  his  demo(  rat  y,  which 


t\ 


■M  «uip-nr»»-'ft?a.yn.'ffjr--ft.TiiH^yac.  ■ 


"^^^s^sisi^ 


499 


f.v  HF  n-Atr  WHiruAX. 


^   I 


ttsstUTS  to  evr«-v  \\y.\\\  :uul  woinnn  ilir  s;tivit«  tigiit'^,  lie  dpiMrttuls  A 
trtri?  or  «nronipvo\ni<«in^  ii\illvi(ln!(Hti("<  wiUmnt  n  net  »ypr  of 
MirtnluMMl,  rtnil  lu'  wishrs  ihrtt  r;Hlu'il\oiitl  rttnl  niotlielliodil  tuny 
Iv  lil>ril  to  thp  Irvil  ot  llu'  wri^lUicsl  rtinl  iioldr'?!  pt^^hlr|ll'^.  A. 
bUoiii"  vmv  !•<  vriHii<<iU'  !'o<  Iwic  tl(  inort.ti  v  U  It  is  lt»  Iv  '^iirir<<<<- 
\\\\  ■.\\u\  \^v\\\\:\\\v\\\.  \'\\v  \tnil1i<^  tnimt  l>i'  Inisli,  livclv,  ii'jpitin^, 
cMiotioMrtl  ihrv  \\\\\<i\  srcit  ilinifj'-i,  rtiul  tlrlv  it  ;  ihv  www  must 
)>«>  I  !i;U;\«trll7r»i  bv  ronv:tHP.  M\\\,  srll-fOtUrol.  irlinMlitv,  sttii 
tlinrss,  volMi-t  hr,-iltli  ;\i\il  rulnl  riutvshirss-  whirli  Inst,  hinvfvi't, 
nmsl  W  I  ■.\\y.\h\o  ot  «  onvi'ision  into  jilmviti^  liiitc.  I'^vpi  y  i  ivic 
rrtnTi  uml  rtiMivitv  sli^ll  stiuul  ojmmi  to  women,  itiul  evpt-vwlieie 
?!lviil  ihfv  \\o\V,  rtmoMitig  ;UI  tliev  tomh,  rts  t-pprp<»rlU!itives  of 
womnnliiiPSH  -though  of  a  woiimnliiu'ss  siirh  ;is  luis  nevrv  \  i-l  Iuth 
nin  I  o\ilil  l>o  |>ii  tmnl  In- poet  oi  iiinrlist.  i 'Icopitli;*,  Hci  ultu. 
Hnmhilil,  lVm'l.>p«\  ;iml  the  mnnnoiis  oihrr  hrroiiu-s  of  p;ist 
rtgrs  rttr  not  idcrtis  of  t^rnunimv  pmilh-tl  IVom  frMiltilisn*.  Rimt* 
now  iUMnortrtr\ .  in  spito  of  its  fanlts,  mitnifi'stptl  in  pinrtire,  hut 
e;1silv  unnl.  ,»lTonls  ;U  till  cvriUs  thr  ln>st  oppoitimitv  fnv  the 
tmshiirklrtl  gvowih  o\  iniliviihinlit v.  nml  ihr  most  rfliMllve 
srhiii  *  lov  tho  fovmnuon  of  piitiioiism.  Whitman  i;ills  lontlly 
\()MMi  \hv  visiiii)  \omh  to  <u mpy  ilsrif  rtssidiionslv  with  politicnl 
lilV — not  to  *  \v  ti<  the  (licf.'iiiiin  nl  ;inv  p;uiv,  hut  to  givp 
p\pvps«ion  \\\  i\\v  V.illot  to  ihrit  own  imh-ppmlpnt  sclf-fiMinptl 
hulumont. 

This  ii|p,\l  it  is  the  \:\<V  o\'  the  port,  to  whom  Whitmnn  in  his 
tUMnortrtry  tfrtnsfrfs  tho  inirlUMlnnI  Ictilrfshlp.  to  hold  toUtin- 
n.iHy  ttp  to  thp  people  i\n<i  mine  to  its  leiilizrttion.  \\v  mnst  noniish 
his  inspiv.Mion  on  imtoihlhonn  i  irrtimsl;\nri's.  hnnlst  iipes  :nul 
i\istitniions,  .invl  pennit  the  Aigoiiimis  to  test  in  pr.uc.  the  wtnlh 
of  Aehilles  to  pVrtpotiUe,  Tiistinn  nn<l  Isohle  in  the  hue  pfollt), 
nnd  Trtnnhilnser  ;nul  Wnns  in  the  nihspllnMg,  to  love  on  nn- 
molesleil. 

The  lileviittnrs  of  I'lmope  vest  npnn  tonililions  whii  h  nre  injn- 
riotis  to  the  ileinoeratie  ptinriple  ol  polilii  .tl  nnti  sorinl  eipialily 
of  tights.  Sh;<kspete,  Reott  rtnd  Tennyson  (hetish  the  spit  it  of 
cftstewhieh  heir,  before  nil  things,  mnst  he  ilesttoyp«l.  'I'he  poet 
of  Ameiir;\  nmst  he  mmlevn.  ,nul  withont  igntMinjj  the  giuul  lUid 


u.it.r  \nniM\y. 


•'.  lie  tieiimtuls  n 
It  ;»  Hpt  typp  ()f 
ni>tlipilmtnl  timy 
"^1  piohlnnc,.  ,\ 
i"*  III  lie   !;ii(  |•r>^^- 

livf'lv,  :ls|)iriii)i, 
:   tin-  iiipli  iiuist 

H'linhilitV.  •'till 
I  ll  l;Wl.  iKMVrvi't. 
I''.      I']vptv  I  ivir 
:iin!  evpfvMliete 

■pif^plllrtHvpM   of 

:i'<  npvpi  \v[  hppit 

•"'prtii.i,  Hcmlm. 

U'lKiiU's  nf  pjist 
"iilnlimn.  Riiitp 
In  piiufifp.  h\\^ 

'oitimiiv  for  flm 
most    pfTriHve 

l;1M    i;llh    Irnttlly 

V  with  piiliiirni 
tv,  Imf  to  fjivp 
lent   splr-lbiMipt! 

WliiiiuMii  ill  \m 
l'<  liold  totiHll- 
Hi'  must  ttoini'ih 

l.»11t|'!(  uppq   ntiil 

pc;i(  ('.  the  wirtlh 

fhp  Imp  grulio, 

to  love  oil  tin- 


Hi 


tllP  lirrlMUflll  mT  Ilin  tttlfnppiiit  (  n||nip(|P'<,  tinf't  itniul  llpnti  liU  nwil 
rcft.  He  must  lie  tltp  li'Mvcii  wliii  l\  Ifiivcim  :tt  lii'^l  llif  wluile 
lump  "I  lii'j  own  iiiUiiMi,  aiul  nltcnvutl-f  mII  llic  world.  II"  lip- 
lr)ni»>«  In  titp  ppopip,  who,  wllhont  KtMnlln^  lilni  piivilrHPs,  fpmlily 
nt  knowlctlfjc  hlin  -.{n  Inw^lvpf  titnl  IpihIpI.   .   .   . 

WliilMifin  ii  the  port  of  idfiitlly:  he  !■<  ll't"  '^killlid  pilot,  thr 
ImrniMl  witrli.  the  hunted  qhivc,  tliP  nm'hcd  linnnn.  in  every 
nhninid  he  is  pinil<dird,  Mini  In  pvpfy  sii  k  pctson  snlTeis.  The 
Ihrihiniinitnl  motto,  "'I'nt  Twitni  nsi,"  Im  hi';. 

\\'iih  Mitifti'*  Anipllim  he  look-^  upon  dpnlli  n"*  !in  Piititplv 
iKiliiifd  iind  lriioil("<4  ri(l,  litit.  nnllkn  Mmk  ti'!  Anifllii'!,  \w  dorq 
not  liinipnt  the  llcctinn  ol  life.  Ncilhci  doc^  he  loii^r,  like  niir 
niodpMl  ppsqinilqtq,  Tof  dpilth  rts  tlip  Plid  of  lllp  toiniflit  of  eyi'^t 
piicp.  flls  liodv,  lu'  knows,  will  mnk''  jjood  innnntf,  Imi  this 
docs  imt  olTiiid  his  dclitfuv.  H<'  smclln  in  !idv,'in»f  ihcsrcnl  of 
the  t(ws  wliii  h  will  he  horn  of  it.  I, iff  hr  looks  upon  onlv  ns  rt 
•  hiiisc  ;  In  tlit-  roiirsr  of  his  inonistlt-  iiiftf-mpsyf  hot-is  lu-  hns 
doiihtlcss  died  mine  iliMii  trn  IhoMsrind  times.  'I'lip  "  .Snn^  of 
Mvself,"  home  on  the  pinions  of  rt  mlf;hlv,  not  to  sny  hridleless, 
lm:ifiln;ili"ii.  (irli  in  hold  nnd  vivid  lhonj;hl,  i  fHihiin';,  i)i  tntrr, 
WhilniMn's  poliii(  ;d  !iiid  ethirni  eiped.  Me  is  ((iiile  .'iwMte  thnt 
tiiiU'h  In  il  will  set  tiiniil  minds  in  revolt,  hnt   he  mttkes  no  ex 


rtise. 


:mt, 


le  s!ivs,  "  not    !i    hit    tionei 


I.       I 


■;oiind   my   hrir- 


hflflc  vnwp  over  the  roofs  of  the  world." 

ll  is  the  poems  pntitled  "  t'liildren  of  Adrnn  "  tlnit  linve  hir 
tlished  llic  <  nief  renson  for  (•(dlin^  Wliilnwin  n  f  (i;irse  nnd  slinme 
less  seiistinlisl.  Mini  therewith  out  e  foi  (ill  luid  indfiinent  pMsned 
Upon  him.  Whopvpr  tends,  snperl'K  inlly,  thi:i  serlion,  will  nilow 
ihnl  the  prrhime  of  these  versps  is  of  the  strongest  ;  lillt  when  we 
(nke  Ihein  ill  i  oiinet  lion  with  the  rest  of  the  "  l-cnves,"  nnd  henr 
in  tnind,  nt  the  snnie  time,  thnt  Wliilmnn,  as  Iho  hif,di    priest  of 


optin 


iisin.  ni  know 


I'mIk 


es  nothing  evil,  hiil    holds  thnt    in  h;itiir( 


one  tiling'  in  its  pince  is  ns  impfnlnnt  ns  nnotlipr  ;  nnd  when  w 
further  think  of  the  holy  enrneslness  width  inspires  these  nnd  nil 
his  I  icnlifMis  we  shnll  soon  do  honin^e  to  nnolher  view  nnd  join 
in  thp  defentc  of  Whitinnn  against  the  current  charge  of  ob- 
scenity. ... 


324 


IN  EE  WALT   WIIITMAX. 


^il. 


r^- 


Whitman,  like  Adam  and  Eve  before  their  fall,  uses  no  fig 
leaves.  .  ,  . 

Conventional  modesty  has  been  by  the  (liscijiles  of  tlie  Chris- 
tian religion,  who  stigmatize  the  hiinum  body — called  by  Luther 
"  maggot  sack" — as  the  originator  of  all  sins,  jiadded  out  into 
a  m'.'ritorious  quality ;  but  now  there  comes  a  poet,  penetrated 
with  the  spirit  of  Greece,  who  preaches  the  sublimity  of  the  flesh 
and  the  holiness  of  all  its  ai  ts.  Whitman  is  the  poet  of  the  entire 
personality,  and,  from  his  solemn  and  ideal  standpoint,  celebrates 
not  only  death,  but  also  birth,  and  the  necessary  foreconditions 
of  it,  without  in  the  slightest  degree  making  use  of  lewd  or 
lascivious  ambiguities.  Without  the  admission  of  any  compro- 
mise whatever  he  boldly  faces  the  sickly  prudery  which  would 
drape  all  the  statues  of  the  classical  god-worici,  and  demonstrates 
its  hypocritical  hoUowness.  In  listening  now  and  again  to  the 
tirades  of  our  male  and  female  moralists  we  are  almost  forced  to 
conclude  that  the  world  is  yearning  for  the  realization  of  the 
Platonic  myth  of  the  union  of  the  male  and  female  principles  in 
one  individual,  and  is  joining  in  the  curse  on  Jupiter  for  having 
separated  the  two  natures.  Nay,  according  to  the  Sunday-school 
religion  of  our  country,  mankind,  tor  decency's  sake,  and  for  the 
salvation  of  its  soul,  ouglit  long  ago  to  have  become  ^i:;€neris  ncu- 
in'us,  or  at  least  have  become  converted  to  the  doctrine  of  the 
Siiakers.  Whitman,  like  the  Creeks,  revels  in  beauty  of  form 
and  beholds  the  divine  where  others  cast  down  their  eyes.  The 
combination  of  the  highest  beauty  and  strength  in  the  human 
body  is  his  ideal. 

The  poems,  "Children  of  Adam,"  are  frequently,  by  Whit- 
man's opponents,  and  even  by  those  who  admit  his  poetic  talent 
and  pure  aims,  called  modern  phallus  songs  ;  but  they  have  really 
nothing  in  common  with  the  customary  Dionysiac  jocularities  of 
which  Aristophanes,  for  example,  in  the  drinking  bout  of  the 
Acharnians,  gives  us  a  specimen.  There  is  here  no  ribaldry,  but 
simple  actions,  conditioned  by  nature  herself,  are  exalted  and 
glorified  in  unwonted  strains.  Naturalia  non  sunt  turpia.  Never 
anywhere  in  his  writings  is  Whitman  immoral  or  obscene;  no- 


.^1 


W| 


WALT  WHITMAN. 


•  95 


fall,  uses  no  fig 


where  does  lie  do  homage  to  the  conventional  ties  of  society,  nor 
ever  consent  to  the  abdication  of  his  body  or  his  reason. 

If  the  definition  which  Marcus  Aurclius  gives  of  virtue  is  cor- 
rect— that  it  consists  in  an  enthusiastic  sympathy  with  nature- 
then  is  Whitman  one  of  the  most  virtuous  men  on  the  whole 
earth.  Modesty  and  morality  do  not  consist  in  drapery.  Whit- 
man celebrates  the  sexual  life  in  the  interest  of  human  progress 
— in  the  interest  of  physical  and  moral  well-being. 

In  the  section,  "  Calamus,"  we  find  him  in  his  own  element, 
in  free  and  open  nature.  Having,  to  the  detriment  of  his  style, 
thoroughly  studied  the  works  of  the  speculative  philosophers  of 
Germany,  he  there  broods  over  "  the  terrible  doubt  of  appear- 
ances "  and  the  like  metaphysical  problems.  It  was  no  mis- 
anthropic whim  that  drove  him  into  solitude,  for  it  was  there 
that  his  phenomenal  feeling  of  brotherhood  first  stirred  in  him. 
Every  one  that  he  meets,  even  casually,  he  looks  deep  in  the  eyes 
and  recognizes — he  has  grown  up  with  him,  he  has  sat  with  him 
at  table  and  eaten  and  drunk  with  him,  and  is  flesh  of  his  flesh 
and  bone  of  his  bone.  Then  he  says  that  he  has  been  blamed 
for  seeking  to  destroy  institutions;  but  that  what  he  seeks  to 
found,  without  statutes,  debates  or  officials,  is  a  kingdom  of  love 
and  brotherhood  to  embrace  all  the  inhabitants  of  the  earth.  The 
poems  in  which  he  celebrates  friendship  are  intense,  candid  and 
penetrative,  standing  alone  in  the  literature  of  this  subject.  They 
contain  no  cheap  tuneful!  and  empty  phrases.  No,  Whitman 
always  speaks  out  of  a  full,  faithful  soul,  and  has  proved  by  his 
life  that  he  is  ever  ready  to  take  the  full  personal  responsibility 
of  every  one  of  his  utterances. 

Hesiod,  in  his  creation  doctrine,  makes  Eros  the  formative 
element  and  primary  cause,  the  subjugator  of  chaos ;  Whitman 
lays  a  similar  task  upon  love  or  friendship — he  calls  upon  each 
to  become  a  lover,  and  claims  that  therein  lies  the  solution  of 
every  social,  political,  philosophical  and  ethical  problem. 

He  envies  no  fame-crowned  conqueror  his  laurels  and  no  mil- 
lionaire his  wealth  ;  but  when  he  hears  of  a  deathless  friendship  he 
becomes  pensive,  filled  with  the  bitterest  envy,  for  he  would  gladly 
be  himself  renowned  as  the  truest  of  true  friends.  He  has  not,  he 
IS 


ii6 


LV  RK   WALT   WHITMAN. 


\%      i 


\ 


■ays,  invented  any  macliinc,  nor  performed  any  deed  of  heroism, 
nor  written  any  book  for  tlie  center  tal)Ie  ;  neither  will  lie  Ite  ahle 
to  leave  heliintl  any  rich  l)e(iuest  for  a  hospital  or  piiblie  library  ; 
but  he  has,  instead,  breatlu-d  into  the  air  some  son^s  of  brother- 
hood and  love,  and  when  these  shall  have  found  an  eeho  in  the 
hearts  of  his  eonirades  (all  maukinti,  namely),  and  thereby  have 
fulfdlcd  their  true  object,  then  will  he  be  immortal,  for  he  will 
then  have  accomplished  what  has  hitherto  been  counted  inipos- 
tible,  and  will  have  solved  every  riddle. 

The  friendship  of  the  |)rcsent  time  depends  upon  similaiity 
of  character,  opinion  and  taste;  among  the  dreeks,  as  now  be- 
tween the  sexes,  physical  beauty  was  accounted  the  jire-condi- 
tion.  'I'lie  friendship  between  Achilles  and  I'atroclus,  which 
was  the  Greek  model,  was  an  heroic  passion  ;  the  friendship  Ik'- 
tween  David  and  Jonathan  hail  its  foundations  in  c(|ual  "-{c  and 
noblcmindediiess  ;  the  Whilnianic  friendship,  however,  is  gen- 
uinely ilemocratic,  for  it  embraces  all  men  without  excep- 
tion.  .   .  . 

The  section  "Sea-Drift"  contains  the  incomparable  bird- 
idyl,  "Out  of  the  Cradle."  Had  Whitman  written  no  single 
line  besiiles,  tliis  poem,  as  huig  as  hearts  exist  to  whom  poetry 
is  a  necessity,  wouhl  assure  him  immortalily.   .   .   . 

In  the  "  Dnim-'I'aps,"  which  were  written  during  tlic  Seces- 
sion war,  and  which  celebrate  scenes  in  it.  Whitman  gives  ener- 
getic expression  to  his  patriotic  and  philantlu'-pic  views.  In 
them  he  preaches  neither  clemency  nor  conciliation,  but  storm 
and  battle  against  those  who  in  the  land  of  freedom  stood  up  for 
the  disgraceful  institution  of  slavery.  His  elegy  on  the  death 
of  Lincoln — "  When  Lilacs  Last  in  the  Dooryaril  Itiooni'd  " — 
favorably  compares  with  the  greatest  threnotlics  of  Greece  and 
Rome.  .  .   . 

The  leading  motives  of  Whitman's  poetry  are  unchangeable 
brotherhood,  untroubled  joy,  unhindered  |)rogress  in  all  depart- 
ments, loving  dependence  on  nature  and  following  of  her  pre- 
cepts, and  absolute  equality  of  the  rights  of  all  mankind — women 
as  well  as  men.  Hut  it  is  not  written  for  the  parlor,  neither  is 
it  all  fitted  for  public  readings.  .  .  . 


WAhT   nil  UMAX. 


§$1 


ny  ticed  of  lieroinm, 
•ilhcr  will  he  l)c  altle 
il  or  |Mil)lic  library  ; 
ic  soiif^H  ol'  brother- 
iiul  an  echo  in  the 
),  and  thereby  have 
imortal,  for  he  will 
•en  counted  inipos- 

iids  npon  siniilaiity 
(Ireeks,  as  now  |)c- 
ited  the  prc-condi- 
<l  I'atrcxiiis,  which 
;  the  friendship  be- 
ins  in  equal  -7c  and 
p,  however,  is  gen- 
en    without    cxcep- 

inconiparablc  bird- 
iM  written  no  single 
list  to  whotn  poetry 

1  during  tlie  Seccs- 
Vhitinan  gives  cncr- 
nthr'^pic  views.  In 
ci'.iation,  but  storm 
eedom  stood  U|)  for 
elegy  on  the  death 
ryard  Hlooin'd  " — 
xlies  of  Greece  and 

y  are  unchangeable 
ogress  in  all  depart - 
llowing  of  her  pre- 
1  mankind — women 
e  parlor,  neither  is 


We  often  hear  it  sai<l  that  Whitman  is  no  Iwlieving  Christian. 
If,  now,  we  nsk  Catholics,  Lutherans,  Methodists,  etc.,  for  a 
definition  of  a  believing  Christian,  we  shall  only  get  conhised 
by  their  contrailic  lory  answers.  We  will  therefore  turn  at  once 
to  the  Hibk,  to  whose  authority  the  believers  above  spet  ified  ap- 
IK'ul.  In  the  C.ospcl  of  Matthew,  towards  the  end  of  the  twenty- 
fifth  chapter,  a  poem  occurs  from  whi«  h  we  select  the  followmg 
verses : 

"  Fur  I  wnn  nn  luinRcrfd,  nnd  yc  gnve  me  no  niciit :  I  wnn  thirsty,  niitl  yn 
gave  inc  nil  dtink  : 

I  wiiH  n  stinnt  •  nnd  ye  took  me  not  in  ;  nnUcd,  1  id  yc  clothed  me 
not :  sick,  and  in  jirlson,  nnd  ye  vinitcd  me  not. 

Tiien  shall  they  also  answer  him,  saying,  I-ord.  wlicn  saw  we  line  nn 
hungered,  or  atliiisi,  or  a  stranjjer,  or  naked,  or  sick,  or  in  iirison,  and  did 
not  minister  unto  tiiee  ? 

Then  shall  lie  answer  them,  snyinjj.  Verily  I  sny  unto  you,  Inasmuch  a» 
ye  did  il  iml  lo  one  of  the  lensl  of  these,  ye  did  il  not  to  me. 

And  these  shall  go  nw.iy  into  everlasting  punishment :  but  the  righteoufc 
into  life  eternal.'' 

This  poem  is  perhaps  weightier  on  account  of  what  it  leaves 
unsaid  than  in  what  is  said.  The  presiding  judge,  for  instance, 
does  not  ask  the  people  before  him  whether  they  had  believed  in 
the  Immatulale  Coik  eption,  the  fall  of  Adam,  the  doctrine  of 
tiic  Tri'.ity,  or  the  fiery  ascent  of  Elijah  ;  it  also  seems  to  be  to 
h'.m  a  matter  of  indilTerence  whether  they  had  subscribed  to  the 
Lutheran  or  reformed  vi. ."  of  the  holy  supper ;  nay,  he  does  not 
even  ."isk  whether  they  were  Christians,  Jews,  Mohammedans, 
Mormons,  Huddhists,  or  anything  else  ;  he  simply  calls  as  wit- 
nesses the  weary  and  oppressed,  and  declares  that  what  has  been 
done  to  them  has  been  done  to  him  also,  and  thereupon  bases 
his  judgment. 

Whitman,  whose  devotions  for  the  most  part  consisted  in 
free,  natural  acts,  and  who  |)erhaps  never  (lro|)ped  a  cent  into 
the  collection  box  fe)r  the  conversion  of  South  Sea  islanders  or 
other  aborigines,  will  be  able  to  stand  unabashed  before  that 
tribimal ;  for  he  has  visited  and  nursed  the  sick,  has  given  his 
own  coat  to  him  that  had  none,  and  has  been  to  every  one  a 


T 


ai.S 


IK  RK   WALT   W II  ITU  AX. 


'  >' 


ll 


»  > 


»1 


I  S 


faifht'ul,  sclf-sarrifK  ing  friend.  If,  however,  in  spite  of  all  this, 
he  in  not  to  be  called  (Christian,  the  denial  certainly  dues  not 
redound  to  the  credit  of  the  Christian  religion.  . 

Whitin.ui  is  nn(|ii(.-!itional>ly  a  genius  and  as  such  his  own  law< 
giver.  When  a  celebrated  psychologist  asserts  that  genius  is  not 
the  frientl  on  whose  hosoni  we  can  find  rest  in  grief  and  storm 
because  its  soul-ntoods  are  subject  to  fitful  change,  his  observa- 
tion has  no  application  to  the  author  of  "  Leaves  of  (irass,"  for 
he  is  perhaps  a  greater  genius  in  the  r6le  of  friend  than  in  that 
of  poet. 

Whitman's  importance  in  its  full  circumference  was  first  ac- 
knowledged in  Kngland.  The  professors  and  literary  historians 
—  Dowilen,  Symonds  and  Clifford — publisiicd  panegyrics  upon 
him,  and  the  so-called  pre-Raphaelii'*s,  '-.iich  as  Swinburne, 
Rossetli,  Morris,  Hiu  hanan  and  Oscar  Wilde,  no  less  than  the 
art-critic  Ruskin,  have  not  only  done  their  utmost  to  procure 
him  a  large  circle  of  readers  in  B^ngland,  but  by  considerable 
ct)ntributions  they  in  his  old  age  have  assisted  in  relieving  him 
from  pressing  pe(  imiary  need. 

In  the  Niitttfi'uth  Ctntiiry  for  December,  1882,  an  English 
essayist  asserts  that  the  majority  of  .\mericans  are  still  too  nar- 
row hearted  to  understand  and  value  a  ^nr\i  like  Whitman. 

h\  Ciormany  Kreiligrath  once  broke  a  lance  for  him,  without, 
however,  being  able  to  excite  even  a  i)assing  interest  in  "  Leaves 
of  Crass."  The  talented  novelist  Rudolf  Schmidt,  in  Den- 
mark, has  interested  himself  in  him  vvith  more  success. 

In  America  the  press  sought,  first,  to  kill  him  with  abuse,  but, 
finding  that  abuse  tlid  not  serve,  it  attempted  to  stifle  him  with 
silence. 

The  mere  titles  of  the  two  poems,  "  A  Woman  Waits  for  Me  " 
and  "  To  a  Common  Prostitute,"  were  sufficient  to  outlaw  him 
\\\\\\  the  puritan,  although  the  Christian,  according  to  Luther's 
declar.-ition,  ought  to  speak  nothing  but  good  of  his  calumniated 
neighbor,  and  it  would  have  been  easy  enough  to  find  plenty 
of  good  to  say  about  Whitman.  Instead  of  doing  their  duty  by 
Whitman  and  the  public  in  an  impartial  objective  statement  of 
his  doctrine,  his  critics  resorted   to  ridicule — a  proceeding  in 


WALT  WHITMAN. 


33^ 


whirh  even  Riyard  Taylor  participated,  without,  however,  ignor- 
ing Whitman's  poclii  al  gifts.  Ono  criticasttT  even  asserted,  in 
all  solemnity,  that  Whitman  at  bottom  was  nothing  but  a  con- 
Hcious  and  calculating  comedian,  who  had  thoroughly  studied  his 
rAIe  and  acted  it  out  with  admirable  consistency.  What  a  pity 
such  a(  tors  are  so  rare  I 

The  most  stupid  essay  on  Whitman  api)eared  in  1884,  in  the 
Not  til  Amfritan  Revinv,  and  it  is  a  matter  of  woniler  to  me  that 
the  usually  so-cautious  editor  of  this  monthly  should  have  ac- 
cepted such  a  manifest  piece  of  botch-work.  Its  author,  Walter 
Kenedy,  has  not  the  least  capacity  for  the  comprehension  of  a 
poet  like  Whitman.  He  dismisses  him  as  if  he  had  ( ome  out  of 
a  madhouse,  and  says  that  if  once  the  "  Leaves  of  Grass  "  were 
purified  from  the  immorality  contained  in  them,  they  would 
cease  to  find  a  single  buyer,  'lo  Whitman's  creative  genius 
(now  universally  admitted)  he  devotes  not  a  single  word.  And 
this  is  what  passes  for  impartial  criticism  ! 

William  Cullen  Bryant,  with  whom  Whitman  w.ns  on  intimate 
terms,  and  with  whom  he  frecpiently  took  extended  walking 
tours  on  Long  Island,  has  to  my  knowledge  never  given  public 
expression  to  his  views  upon  '•  Leaves  of  Grass,"  but  since  the 
appearance  of  W.  I).  O'Connor,  Dr.  Bucke,  Burroughs  nud 
Stedman,  Whitman's  following  in  America  has  slowly  increased 
and  every  ye.ir  add  to  its  numbers.  Other  poets  are  no  doubt 
more  geneially  re;'d,  but  of  none  has  there  been  more  said  and 
written  of  late  years  than  of  Whitman,  nor  has  any  found  at  the 
last  such  warm  and  devoted  friends.  The  time  for  ignoring  him 
is  p-ist,  though,  on  the  other  hand,  the  time  for  his  recognition 
and  comprehension  has  not  come.  His  world-salute  has  already 
been  answered  from  every  country  in  which  homage  is  paid  to 
poetry. 

I  have  here  sought  to  present  him  impartially  and  without 
bias,  and  have  neither  ignored  nor  palliated  his  weaknesses, 
oddities  and  idiosyncrasies. 

As  one  who  has  sacrificed  his  health  and  fortunes  to  the  needs 
of  the  poor,  the  wounded  and  the  outcast,  and  has  not,  in  spite 
of  ample  opportunity,  made  seasonable  provision  for  his  old  age, 


I 


f.  I' 


230 


IN  RE  WALT  WHITMAN. 


he  may  appear  to  us  an  unpractical  dreamer.  Our  reverence, 
however,  we  cannot  on  this  account  withhold  from  him ;  as  poet 
of  the  already-mentioned  bird-idyl,  as  well  as  of  the  elegy  on 
the  death  of  Lincoln,  wt  do  not  hesitate  to  condone  his  ofifences 
against  the  codes  of  so-called  good  taste,  of  meter  and  of 
grammar. 

From  the  point  of  view  of  aesthetics  his  aim  has  been  the 
beautiful ;  from  that  of  philosophy,  truth ;  from  that  of  ethics, 
good  J  as  democrat,  he  wills  to  all  men  freedom  and  joy. 
As  genius  Whitman  is  primitive-American  —  a  self-rooted 
autochthonic  Titan.  He  and  his  "  Leaves  "  are  one;  they  are 
his  flesh  and  b'ood,  his  heart  and  soul.  "  Camerado,"  he  says, 
in  closing,  "  this  is  no  book,  who  touches  this  touches  a  man." 


WALT  WHITMAN,  THE  POET  OF 
AMERICAN  DEMOCRACY. 

By  RUDOLF  SCHMIDT:   Translated  from  the  Danish  by  R.  M.  BAIN  {of  the  British 
Muttum),  and  RICHARD  MA  URICE  B  UCKE. 

■  -  :       V  ,,•■.•.,'.,. 


American  literature  has  gone  through  precisely  the  same  de- 
velopment (in  spite  of  all  ditferences)  which  can  be  pointed  out 
in  all  modern  literature,  and  which  is  based  in  a  necessity  raised 
above  all  external  contraries.   ...  - 

Walt  Whitman's  verses  are  arbitrarily  divided  into  very  differ- 
ent lengths.  Sometimes  it  is  undeniable  that  the  rhythmic  swing 
does  not  strike  the  ear  at  all,  at  others  every  line  is  marked  by  a 
rapid  certainty  and  majestic  force  which  can  only  be  compared 
with  the  heaving  breast  of  the  ocean  or  the  course  of  wind  over 
the  prairies.  German,  as  well  as  Scandinavian,  literature  can 
certainly  -how  poems  in  rhythmic  prose,  but  the  most  casual 
comparison  will  establish  the  radical  difference  between  them 
and  those  of  Walt  Whitman.  The  only  thing  which  approxi- 
mately reminds  us  of  the  American  poet's  mode  of  expression  is 
the  peculiar  accent  which  is  here  and  there  discovered  in  our 
translation  of  the  Old  Testament  or  in  one  or  two  of  H.  Werge- 
land's  unrhymed  poems.  In  one  of  the  prefaces  in  which  Walt 
Whitman,  at  various  times,  has  entered  the  lists  with  great  vigor 
and  superiority  in  defence  of  his  own  style  of  art,  he  expressly 
represents  it  as  the  object  of  the  finished  artist  to  approach 
nature  herself,  whose  rhythm  in  its  manifold  expressions  is  ever 
present  and  yet  never  allows  itself  to  be  confined  within  any 
single  regular  pulse.  There  is  no  doubt  that  this  idea  of  a  new 
and  peculiar  form  of  art  has  (perhaps  half-unconsciously)  in- 
fluenced the  aut'iior  in  the  choice  of  the  general  title,"  Leaves  of 
Grass,"  under  which  he  continues  to  classify  all  his  poems.     For 

(23') 


'I 


232 


IN  RE  WALT  WHITMAN, 


if 


f 


it  is  the  swaying,  rocking,  the  never-interrupted,  but  constantly 
bending  (rising  and  falling)  of  the  grass  which  he  strives  to 
represent  in  language.  The  poet  in i  ./duces  himself  at  once  to 
his  readers  as  a  widely  travelled  Odysseus,  of  whom  it  may  well 
be  said  that  he  has  seen  manifold  cities  and  understood  their 
ways — but  these  are  after  all  at  bottom  not  essentially  different 
one  from  another  to  him.  .  .  .  The  immeasurable  domain  is 
everywhere  to  him  one  and  the  same  thing — it  is  simply  America, 
the  home  and  hearth  of  freedom,  the  soil  upon  which  the  foun- 
dations of  human  truth  and  nobility  are  to  be  laid.  It  is  not  with 
the  repose  of  contemplation,  but  with  the  everywhere  vigorous 
joy  of  recognition,  with  the  innate  force  of  vitality,  that  he  de- 
clares what  he  has  seen.  .  .  .  That  a  poet  in  a  spiritual  manner 
should  reproduce  the  impressions  of  the  natural  scenery  of  his 
country  is  certainly  the  main  effect  in  which  all  the  active  powers 
of  his  genius  should  concentrate  themselves,  at  least  so  far  as  re- 
gards a  liberating,  regenerating  poetry.  But  when  the  reproduc- 
tion is  in  itself  an  illumination,  these  initial  impressions  of  nature 
may  be  presented  to  the  reader  in  ways  new  and  unexpected.  The 
peculiar  point  of  view  of  the  author's  imagination,  the  material 
which  he  had  to  work  upon,  already  announced  itself  in  the  first 
edition  of  "  Leaves  of  Grass  "  with  strikingly  typical  peculiarity. 
The  great  introductory  piece,  which  gave  .he  keynote  not  only 
of  this  first  outpouring  of  thoughts  and  moods,  but  also  of  the 
later  editions  which  swelled  to  very  much  larger  compass,  had 
subsequently  for  its  title  "  Walt  Whitman." 

"  I  celebrate  myself" — thus  begins  this  poem,  striking  at  the 
outset  the  keynote  of  democracy.  Downright  self-glorification 
is  nevertheless  in  itself  such  a  dwarfing  sentiment  that  one  knows 
beforehand  no  true  poetic  inspiration  can  be  born  of  it.  In 
reality,  the  poet  only  takes  his  point  of  departure  from  himself 
in  order  to  portray  a  type.  "What  is  a  man  anyhow?"  he 
says — "  What  am  I  ?  what  are  you  ?  All  I  mark  as  my  own  you 
shall  offset  it  with  your  own,  else  it  were  time  lost  listening  to 
me."  But  this  facing  about  puts  the  matter  in  a  new  light,  and 
shows  that  the  poet  is  really  possessed  of  the  democratic  idea  in 
its  depth  and  truth.     It  is  in  virtue  of  this  general  respect  for 


11 


WALT  WHITMAN,  THE  POET  OF  AMERICAN  DEM    CRA  CY. 


235 


"What  am  I  after  all,"  thus   begins  one  of  his  lesser 
but  a  child,  pleas'd  with  the  sound  of  my  own  name  ? 


man  that  democratic  equality  emphasizes  the  rights  of  individ- 
uals, but  it  is  impossible  for  the  individual  to  insist  on  the  right 
for  himself  without  at  the  same  time  recognizing  it  in  every  other 
man.  When,  then,  the  poet  strives  to  discover  the  leading  trait 
in  himself,  it  is  after  all  only  human  nature  which  lies  before 
him.     This  seeking  in  his  own  soul  causes  the  poet  a  wonderful 

joy- 
poems, 

repeating  it  over  and  over;  I  stand  apart  to  hear — it  never  tires 
me."  But  what  he  brings  before  us  is  not  the  accident  of  his 
own  individuality,  it  is  what  is  common,  typical.  The  poem  has- 
fifty-two  parts,  which  so  far  as  outward  form  is  concerned  are  not 
united  together  by  any  binding  thread  whatever.  It  is  a  world 
of  ideas,  figures  and  imaginative  combinations  cast  forth  hig- 
gledy-piggledy, often  with  an  appeal  to  the  sense  of  the  reader 
of  remarkably  striking  force,  but  also  frequently  entangled  in 
obscurity  to  such  a  degree  that  it  is  impossible  for  the  reader  to 
get  at  his  meaning.  But  in  any  case  one  always  feels  that  these 
ideas  and  figures  have  their  hidden  explanation  in  the  author's 
own  soul,  and  the  fact  that  they  all  are  expressions  of  life  from 
the  same  source  constitutes  the  real  unity  of  the  poem.  In  the 
poem  "Walt  Whitman"  is  drawn  the  bold  outline  of  a  new 
departure  in  humanity — a  man  vigorous,  with  warm  blood  and 
fruitful  brain,  strong  muscle,  wealth  of  imagination  healthily- 
rooted  in  sensuous  organic  nature,  and  at  the  same  time  with  a 
power  of  spiritual  flight — able  to  attain  the  highest  thoughts  of 
the  human  mind. 

The  real  hero  of  this  poem  is  no  individual  man  but  the 
American  people — the  type  of  humanity  that  people  represents. 
And  of  this  type  the  poet  is  intimately  persuaded  that  it  compre- 
hends, if  not  in  actual  reality  at  least  in  disposition  and  poten- 
tiality, the  highest  condition  for  the  progress  of  all  humanity. 
It  has  been  said  by  the  poet's  admirers  that  the  whole  compre- 
hensive collection  of  "  Leaves  of  Grass,"  with  all  its  manifold 
contents,  should  properly  be  regarded  as  a  single  poem,  which 
at  bottom  is  only  a  further  development  of  that  which  bears  as 
title  the  poet's  own  name.     They  would  have  the  book  regarded 


234 


ty^  UK   WALT   WniTMArf. 


as  the  great  pioneer's  epic,  the  poet  himself  «,i)nstanlly  standing 
in  the  background,  and  the  feeling  of  energetic  humanity  in  Ids 
•own  soul  giving  a  satisfactory  explanation  of  each  individual 
part.  The  ncver-before-hcanl  words  and  sentences  of  this  author, 
4n  which  these  images  burst  forth,  thus  become  the  outward  sign 
of  his  calling  as  the  f»)rerunner  of  a  regeneration  of  humanity. 
This  is  so  far  true  that  in  the  various  parts  into  which  the  poems 
are  divided  there  is  found  a  transition  which  begins  in  the  ob- 
scurity of  natmc's  operations  atul  ends  in  the  clearest  and  surest 
certainty  of  the  spirit.  The  firht  degree  in  this  scale  has  the 
common  title,  "  Children  of  yVdam,"  and  already  shows  in  strong 
trails  what  a  new  and  strange  individuality  the  reader  has  before 
him. 

The  au<lacity  with  which  the  »  "Jt  makes  himself  the  spokes- 
wan  of  the  immediate  sensat-on  of  life — the  mystic,  attractive 
relations  between  man  and  woman — has  nothing  corresponding 
.to  it  in  modern  times.  There  is  sometimes  something  quite  un- 
human  in  it,  but  at  tlw  same  time  something  very  powerful.  It 
sounds  to  one's  ears  almost  like  the  roarofawil-  beast  in  the 
rutting  season,  and  the  proportions  are  here  so  gigantic  that 
petty  objection  in  the  name  of  injured  decei.^y  is  under  the  cir* 
«  nmstanccs  not  the  form  which  disgust,  if  excited,  should  assume. 
In  the  poet  of  the  "Adamic  Song,"  as  Whitman  calls  himself, 
is  *o  be  heard  as  it  wore  a  re-echo  of  the  I'riapic  hymns  of  Greek 
antiquity,  and  this  teminiscence  may  be  partly  the  cause  of  the 
disgust  felt.  However  occult  and  mysteriotis  the  nature  side  of 
human  life  still  continues  to  be,  it  has  nevertheless  become  so 
much  illumined  by  the  light  of  science  that  this  Hac(  hanlic,  fan- 
tastical ai>otheo8is  of  the  sexual  relations  has  become  an  actual 
impossibility,  for  every  gleam  of  a  consciousness  different  from 
that  with  which  humanity's  infancy  has  heretofore  looked  upon 
these  inevitable  relations  produces  a  change  of  impression  which 
excites  disgust. 

■  The  unavoidable  working  out  of  these  modes  of  thought  in  the 
new-world  poet  is  expressed  in  such  a  violent  atid  unbridled 
manner  that  it  has  the  ap|)carance  on  the  face  of  it  of  incompre- 
Jiensible  brutality,  so  long  as  one  dwells  on  the  details,  and  this 


k 


WALT  WlltnfA  \,  rifK  PORT  OF  A MKRICAN  DEMOCRACY.    235 

American  c  riticism  lias  done  persistently.  Hut  if  with  r'^gani  to 
these  ontpnurings  one  hits  upon  tlic  idea  of  rebutting  theni  with 
the  same  passion  with  which  they  obtrude  themselves,  then,  in- 
«leetl,  this  mode  of  regarding  them  as  criterion  for  a  sound  judg- 
ment is  dearly  false  and  invali«l.  Curiously  enough,  it  is  a 
woman  who.  with  the  truthful  instir  :t  which  so  often  guides  her 
.sex,  here  first  expresses  the  opinion  which  does  justice  to  the 
poet's  intention,  and  by  so  doing  makes  a  reconsideration  of  the 
<piestion  inevitable.  \\\  English  lady  (who  after  reading  Walt 
Whitman's  book  became  one  of  his  enthusiastic  admiters,  for  one 
of  two  things  always  happens — either  one  takes  his  part  uncon- 
diiionally  or  becomes  his  irreconcilable  antagonist)  wrote  to  the 
editor  of  the  ICnglish  selection  of  his  poems.  W.  M.  Rossctti,  a 
long  '.otter  which  he,  under  the  title  of  "A  Woman's  Estimate 
of  Walt  \V!>itman,"  caused  to  be  published  in  May,  1870,  in  the 
Boston  Nihiioii.  This  letter,  which  plainly  reveals  itself  as  the 
effusion  of  a  |)crspicacious  mind  cultivated  by  manifold  observa- 
tion and  learning,  expressly  insists  that  Whitman's  expression  of 
intoxication  by  the  feeling  of  life  is  not  to  be  taken  by  itself  but 
as  a  phase  of  the  poet's  thought — "  the  primeval  foundation  of  the 
race;"  in  coi.sc<]ucnce  of  which  he  praises  the  splendor  of  a 
perfect  body  and  the  rich  productive  ])owcrs  of  t'le  unpoisoned 
sources  of  life.  The  aiithoress  <  alls  attention  to  this  significant 
line  of  the  poet  :  "  Life  of  my  senses  and  flesh,  transcending  my 
senses  and  flesh." 

It  is  a  poem  of  the  body  which  the  author  wishes  to  make,  but 
such  a  poem  as  is  full  of  deeply  felt  truth,  and  not  a  poem  in 
which  the  worship  of  beauty  becomes  the  cloak  for  a  carnally 
excited  imagination.  It  is  also  readily  perceived  that  it  is  no 
subjective  erotic  poet's  pen  which  has  jiroduced  these  grotesque 
lines.  There  is  cast  over  this  grim  falling  foul  of  those  things 
about  which  a  moral  instinct  tolls  men  to  hold  their  tongues,  a 
gust  as  it  wore  of  strong  inspiration.  The  new  dciiarture,  which 
at  first  had  such  a  repulsive  eflfect,  now  appears  in  any  case  as  a 
fully  cons(-ious  spiritual  aim  ;  and  if  a  man  cannot  altogether  get 
his  mental  habits  reconciled  to  seeing  the  cymbal  of  a  corybant 
clashed  bv  a  man  whosa  clothes  are  sewn  in  a  New  York  tailor's 


ini 


r 


«3« 


JN  RK   WALT  WHITMAN. 


shop,  at  least  one  gets  to  understand  the  poet  as  a  characteristic 
expresser  of  his  country  and  people.  A  few  years  ago  the  papers 
announced  an  exhibition  of  new-born  cliildren  in  an  American 
town,  and  the  mother  of  the  strongest  and  healthiest  of  the  little 
mortals  was  presented  with  a  valuable  prize.  On  the  reception 
of  this  prize  the  triumphant  matron  with  a  loud  voice  undertook 
in  the  following  year  to  win  the  prize  that  should  be  then  set, 
and  the  assembly  ai)plauded  rapturously.  There  are  points  of 
view  from  which  such  things  look  uncommonly  low  and  brutal, 
but  one  would  Jo  better  to  be  silent  rather  than  deny  that  this  is 
a  sound  and  sensible  path  to  be  pursued.  The  same  element  in 
the  nature  of  the  American  jieople  which  finds  expression  in  this 
case  has  in  the  poet's  mind  condensed  itself  into  wild,  uncon- 
trollable expression,  and  inasmuch  as  he  seeks  words  for  what 
lives  within  him  in  the  deep  layer  of  the  language,  without  any 
mealy-mouthedness,  he  is  not  therefore  an  apostle  of  immorality 
who  without  shame  substitutes  for  the  well-known  obsequious 
delicacy  of  European  literature  mere  impudent  audacity ;  he  is 
simply  the  sober  organ  of  the  democratic  mind. 

The  next  division  of  the  poems  has  as  general  title  "  Calamus." 
In  one  of  these  poems  the  author  addresses  the  reader  in  the 
following  words : 

"  Whoever  you  tire  holding  me  now  in  hand, 
Without  one  thing  all  will  lie  useless, 
I  give  you  fair  warning  before  you  attempt  me  further, 
I  am  not  what  you  supposed,  but  far  different. 

Who  is  he  th.it  would  become  my  follower  ? 

Who  would  sign  himself  a  candidate  for  my  affections? 

The  way  is  suspicious,  the  result  uncertain,  perhaps  destructive, 

Vou  would  have  to  give  up  nil  else,  I  alone  would  expect  to  be  your  sole 

and  excluswe  standard, 
Your  novitiate  ..ould  even  then  be  long  and  exhausting. 
The  whole  past  theory  of  your  life  and  all  conformity  to  the  lives  around 

you  would  have  to  be  abandon'd. 
Therefore  release  me  now  before  troubling  ysurself  any  further,  let  go  your 

hand  from  my  shoulders, 
Put  me  down  and  depart  on  your  way. 


I    I 


IVALT  WHITMAN,  rUK  POET  OF  AMElilVAN  DEMOCRACY.  337 

Or  else  l>y  stcnlth  in  imrne  wood  for  trial, 

Or  iiack  of  a  rock  in  the  open  air, 

(For  in  any  roof  M  room  of  a  house  I  emerge  not,  nor  in  company, 

And  in  libraries  I  lie  as  one  dumi),  a  (;nwk,  or  unborn,  or  dead,) 

But  just  possibly  with  you  on  a  high  hill,  first  watching  lest  any  person  for 

miles  around  a|)proach  unawares, 
Or  |x)ssibly  with  you  sailing  at  sea,  or  on  the  beach  of  the  sea  or  some  q>iiet 

island, 
Here  to  put  your  lips  upon  mine  I  permit  you. 
With  the  comrade's  lonjj-dwciling  kiss  or  the  new  husband's  kiss, 
I'or  I  am  the  new  husband  and  I  am  the  comrade. 


Or  if  you  will,  thrusling  me  beneath  your  clothing, 

Where  I  may  feel  the  throbs  of  your  heart  or  rest  upon  your  hip. 

Carry  me  when  you  go  fordi  over  land  or  sea ; 

For  thus  merely  touching  you  is  enough,  is  best, 

And  thus  touching  you  would  I  sdently  sleep  and  be  carried  eternally. 

But  these  leaves  conning  you  con  at  peril, 

For  these  leaves  and  me  you  will  not  understand. 

They  will  elude  you  at  first  and  still  more  afterward,  I  will  certainly  elude 

you. 
Even  while  you  should  think  you  had  unquestionably  caught  me,  behold ! 
Already  you  see  I  have  escaped  from  you." 

.  It  is  not  only  that  Walt  Whitman  departs  so  completely  from 
every  previous  literary  experience,  but  also  that  there  is  so  much 
in  him  which  is  rather  glimpsed  than  clearly  expressed,  and 
this  makes  him  certainly  often  glide  away  from  the  reader  in 
phrases  which  can  with  difficulty  be  brought  under  any  regular 
and  definite  meaning.  In  any  case  it  will  always  be  possible  to 
follow  him  through  all  his  chief  tendencies  if  one  strives  to  see 
in  these  tendencies  an  impulse  of  the  very  thought  of  Democracy 
itself.  It  is  not  merely  that  the  individual  when  in  health  and 
power  demands  free  breathing  room  for  its  own  self,  respects  the 
same  right  in  other  individuals,  and  is  thereby  led  to  an  advan- 
tageous self-limitation  ;  there  is  also  a  limitation  of  a  more  inti- 
mate and  noble  kind  which  the  free  self,  precisely  in  the  firm 
feeling  of  only  following  the  law  of  its  own  will,  may  of  spiritual 
necessity  impose  upon  itself;  it  is  that  which  lies  in  the  demand 


I  J 


ajH  IX   KN    UAI.T   WIlir.UAX, 

(tf  lovo.     The  lUiovi'  uH-nlioiu'd  ilivisinn  of  "  l.t-avcs  oi  driiiw" 
iili'ali/.CM  riioiHlship  Ih"|w«'i'i\  mrn  :   tlu*  love  ofi oiunulcs. 

"  I  Kiuv  ii)  I  iuii<ii\nit  n  llvr  (>i\k  >;itiwiii^;. 
All  iilxiir  Ntiiitil  ii  iiiiil  ihi'  iiiiisK  liuiij;  iIkwii  Iiiiki  (lie  lirniii'l)('i«, 
NViilii'ut  i>i>v  'I'lniinnitin  il  hm-w  iIicu-  iiiu-iin^  jnyinin  leuvos  oldnik  kicph, 
Anil  ilx  liiitk,  Miilc,  unlirnilin^,  Uintv,  nnulc  nio  iliiiiU  ol  niyHfll, 
llul  I  wonilciM  linw  il  rnulil  ntu-i  jnyoii'.  loiwos  iitaiiilni);  iduno  Ihcio  with- 

KUl  lis  flicitil  Itriu,  inr  I  knew   I  ciillM  not, 

Anil  1  l<ii<k(<  oil  A  Iwi^  will)  i\  I'oil.iin  iHinilier  ot  loi«\rs  iipitn  il,  nml  Iwinotl 

nmunil  it  .1  lililc  nin^, 
Aiul  Itiou^lii  it  itwity,  ami  I  l\itvr  pliUTtl  il  in  ni^ilit  in  my  room, 
ll  in  not  nii'dril  In  UMniml  imp  i\h  of  niy  own  iloui  IiumhN, 
(I'or  I  liclicvo  li\U'lv  I  tliiuk  ol  lilili<  oNo  lliitii  ol  lhi'ii\,) 
Yet  il  irmrtinii  to  \\\v  «  tuiionn  lokoii,  It  iimkcH  mo  llunk  of  lurtnly  lovpj 
Vol  i\ll  tliiU,  unvl  llioiij;h  lliv"  live  oiik  ^;liMoiiH  ihoie  in  l.o\ii!«inni«  »olilnry  In  n 

wiiU"  llul  »|>m(", 
I'lloHnu  joyous  Icmi-n  nil  il^  lilo  without  A  fvicnd  a  lover  ncnr, 
1  know  voiy  woll  I  oouM  not." 

Utit  with  the  iVco  lH)ml  ol"  iiniiin  which  the  port  designates  in 
these  wonis  as  Ills  own  soul's  net  essity  l»e  will  now  eniirele  the 
.\\nerie;tn  States  ;n\t'  bung  ahoiit  their  true  i)nencs8. 

•'("onii",  I  will  lunkr  llic  o,>n|inonl  iiulissoluMo, 
I  will  nirtkc  Iho  n\(isi  s,l(Mivliil  i,v»o  ilio  sun  over  siionc  uj)on, 
I  will  m«ko  (livinr  n\,tj;iu'tii'  liimls, 

Willi  llu-  love  ol  ooiiojilo*, 

With  ilu>  lilo  lonj;  lovo  of  coniriulen, 

I  will  i>lnnt  conipi\nionsl\ip  tliiok  ns  lioos  ixlon^  nil  llic  rivers  of  Amoricn, 

Mu\  rtlon^;  tlio  slioirs  of  iho  ^ronl  Irtko*.  nml  aII  over  the  piniricH, 
1  will  mnke  insoparnMo  iilios  with  iheir  nrm»  nhout  cAch  other's  necks, 
Hy  the  lo\o  >>f  v'onira(lo«t, 

Ity  iho  manly  love  of  comnxden, 

Kor  you  those  fnun  mo,  t>  Pomoiiaoy,  lo  *oivo  you  niA  femmet 
For  )^n^,  for  you  I  am  lulling:  these  s*>nj;s," 

Tlie  politieo-soeirtl  freeiUMU-eqiiality  doetrine,  whieh  through 
sttoh  long  ages  was  so  ctirionsly  split  up  ainoitg  its  Kuropean 
heralds,  insotuuch  that  first  one  then  another  side  of  it  was  cx- 
agigeiated  at  the  expense  of  the  opposite  side,  has  among  the 


AniJ 

hoh 

inatj 

the 

WhI 

for\i 


WAW  WHITMAN,  TIIK  VOKT Of  AMKItlVAN  DKMOCRACY.  339, 

AnuTicntis  fouiul  tlic  link  of  personal  unity  wliicli  firHl  ical'y 
I\i)I(Ih  it  lonctlicr.  'I'liis  wliolo  section  of  the  poent  contiiins  so 
many  expresHioiis  of  «  li'r^e  anil  waiin  lu-art  that  one  gets  to  love 
tiie  p(M'i  very  th-aily.  Tins  method  of  approat  h  is  precisely  what 
Whitman  hiinself,  in  the  above  nanunl  address  to  the  reader,  puts 
forward  as  the  oidy  «ey  to  a  real  comprehension  of  him. 

And  in  the  nndst  of  all  hit  egoism  we  can  easily  distinguish  in 
him  ii  longing  that  this  key  may  he  discovered. 

"  Nt>w  lirt  me  cloic  la  your  fiice  till  I  whiiper, 
Wlml  yiui  iirp  lioliliiin  U  in  rciilily  mi  imok,  nor  pnrf  of  n  book  t 
it  in  II  nun,  llusliM  nnd  tiill  lilnnilcil  -it  in  I  -.So  l<<ii,i;  f 
— VVc  niuti  m'lmriitr  itwhilo— I Icrc I  Inki'  from  my  lips  llils  kiut 
VVhiu'vcr  y<'»  nii*.  1  give  it  c!i|H'iiiilly  to  yon  ; 
St>  loii/i  ! — Aiul  t  li(i|ie  wc  sIk'U  niucl  ii^nin." 

Yet  not  even  this  current  of  thought  in  Walt  Whitman  have 
the  American  critics  tnulerstood,  although  it  touches  the  very 
heart-root  of  their  |)eople.  The  partiality  for  sailors,  hunters, 
boatmen  and  pioneers,  expressed  iu  so  many  places  by  the  poet, 
has  in  the  very  home  of  democracy  been  brought  up  against  him 
as  a  vulgar  penchant,  which  cannot  but  exclude  him  from  the 
culture  ard  nobility  a  man  nnist  necessarily  have  to  work  his 
way  in  literature,  in  this  respect,  however,  it  was  reserved  for 
Whitman,  by  his  very  deeils,  to  de(  lare  what  his  words  meant,  so 
that  no  mistake  was  any  longer  possible.  His  career  in  the 
camps  and  hospitals  ihning  the  civil  war,  which  followed  the 
early  editions  of  "  Leaves  of  (Irass,"  became  the  plainest  com- 
mentary to  his  song  of  "  love  of  comrades."  Hut  that  we 
possess  in  Walt  Whitman  an  individuality  which  has  received 
once  for  all  its  impress  and  full  idea  of  the  public  spirit  prevail- 
ing in  American  and  tiemocratic  society,  is  to  be  recognized, 
jwrhaps,  most  plainly,  when  we  compare  him  with  those  poetic 
phenomena  in  European  literature  in  whom  a  bursting  forth  of  the 
national  minil  has  occurred  as  if  from  the  very  depths  of  the 
nation  itself.  It  follows  of  itself  that  we  are  not  talking  here 
tiboiit  the  V  mimon  people  in  whom  in  every  literature  (here  at 
home  also)  a  brief  interest  has  been  awakened  by  means  of  a 


!     i 


[   Ii 


240 


IN  KK   WALT   WHITMAX. 


WAL 


iv- 


11 


skillful  imitation  of  a  poetry  which  has  found  its  proper  expression 
and  exhausted  its  significance  beforehand.  .  .   . 

Walt  Whitman's  poetry  certainly  brings  about  a  remarkable 
feeling  of  life  in  the  reader,  and  immediately  operates  as  some- 
thing absol  itely  original,  which  has  its  flow  from  nature's  own 
source.  But  those  qualities  with  which  the  simple  popular  poet 
so  strangely  masters  his  own  mind  he  possesses  in  a  lesser  degree 
[/*.  e.,  Whitman  has  in  less  degree  than  they  the  dominant  char- 
acteristics of  the  popular  poet,  such  as  Burns  and  Koltsov]. 

In  a  somewhat  old  "  Travels  in  America  "  I  once  read  that 
the  European  fruit  trees  in  the  soil  of  the  New  World  bore  fruit 
of  far  fainter  flavor,  but,  by  way  of  compensation,  of  a  far  more 
considerable  size,  tlian  in  the  Old  World.  Whether  or  no  this 
be  the  case,  we  have  hjre  an  analogy  which  is  very  edifying  with 
regard  to  the  relatiors  between  Walt  Whitman  and  his  European 
comi)eers.  He  ha^  shot  up  from  a  spiritual  soil  still  lacking  in 
the  juices  which  give  to  the  fruits  of  the  mind  their  peculiar  aroma 
and  fascinating  sweetness,  but  the  whole  circumference  is  many 
times  greater,  and  promises,  when  once  the  full  ripening  has 
come,  productions  of  a  far  richer  power  and  fulness.  The  Euro- 
pean poets  have  glorified  affection  and  friendship,  as  individual 
feelings.  Whitman  sings  the  attraction  between  the  sexes  as  the 
healthy  foundation  of  a  new  race,  and  men's  affectionate  devo- 
tion to  each  other  as  the  true  uniting  energy  of  a  free  community. 
At  the  same  time,  his  feeling  of  self  and  personality  is  so  far  from 
being  less  strong  than  it  is  in  those  other  poets  that  on  the  con- 
trary he,  quite  diff'erently  from  them,  has  penetrated  into  the 
inmost  qualities  of  self  in  such  a  way  as  lyric  torch  has  never 
before  illuminated.    .   .   . 

Whitman  is  a  democratic  poet,  who  has  become  the  spokesman 
of  a  democratic  people.  The  breadth  of  the  continent  is 
illustrated  in  his  poems.  .  .  . 

There  is  in  Whitman  a  mass  of  miscellaneous  commonplaces 
— one  might  almost  say  of  unsifted  newspaper  expressions;  there 
is  something  abrupt,  angular,  raw,  which  repulses  ;  but  behind  all 
this  we  observe,  at  the  same  time,  the  volatile  mind  which  has 
not  perished  beneath,  but  works  groaning  through,   the  un- 


f   • 


expression 


emarkable 


WALT  niflT.VAX,  TIIK  POKT  OF  AMERICAN  Ut:MOCRAi.!Y.  ,41 

rhythmic-  and  half-rhythmic  combinations  of  wouls,  wluch  rom- 
binations,  however,  in  his  liappier  moments,  he  brings  togetlier 
so  as  to  form  surprising  artisti<   effects. 

Tlie  impression  that  we  here  stand  before  a  new  departure 
makes  us  again  reverse  ciu  judgment,  iiowever  tasteless,  even  dis- 
gusting, the  details  may  have  been  to  us.  Tlic  feeling  comes  to 
one  that  the  pure  and  perfect  beauty  with  which  our  minds 
have  been  seized  in  reading  Whitman  may  be  attained  by  this 
road  also  and  indeed  reveal  itself  (througij  this  style)  with  a 
hitherto  unknown  power  and  splendor, 

Walt  Whitman  has  his  own  way  of  computing  time.  He  talks 
of  the  "  seventieth  "  or  "  eightieth  year  of  these  states,"  he  cal- 
culates by  peculiar  divisions,  and  refers  to  "  the  I'residentiads," 
as  the  old  Greeks  to  tlie  Olympiads.  Sometimes  the  self  con- 
sciousness of  the  Americans  assumes  such  an  expression  in  him 
that  no  Yankee  even  of  the  most  magniloquent  sort  would  find 
it  easy  to  go  beyond  him.  But  the  very  affection  which  expresses 
itself  as  a  broader  and  wider  popular  feeling  gives  the  poet  the 
necessary  corrective.  There  are  expressions  enough  to  be  found 
in  "  Leaves  of  Grass  "  which  guarantee  that  Whitman  is  by  no 
means  of  the  same  kidney  as  that  American  citizew  who  looked 
through  the  papers  for  a  school  for  his  son  where  he  could  be  ex- 
empted from  the  humbug  history  of  those  nations  which  ha>'e  been 
dead  and  buried  these  thousands  of  years  and  were  unable  tc 
show  a  single  citizen  "  who  could  steer  a  steamboat  or  manage 
a  hotel !  "  If  it  has  hitherto  been  permitted  to  us  Europeans 
to  write  and  think  as  if  the  New  World  did  not  exist,  a  corre- 
sponding one-sided  forgetfulness  is  quite  an  impossibility  with  an 
American  poet.  Even  if  his  patriotic  feeling  makes  bim  a 
citizen  rather  of  a  continent  than  of  a  country,  nevertheless,  in 
that  very  fact  he  has  a  constant  reminder  that  on  the  other  side 
of  the  great  ocean  there  is  the  Old  World  where  stood  the  cradle 
of  humanity,  where  his  forefathers  lived,  and  where  the  culture 
on  which  he  himself  rests  was  founded.  This  reminder  finds 
constant  expression  in  Walt  Whitman,  who  never  lets  it  go;  in 
his  loftiest  flights  it  still  hangs  over  him,  at  once  questioning  and 
warning  him.      •  '  •  >-  .  .  I 

16 


»  ri 


u 


r.../i 


It 


1 


«^i  i\  WA  II  1/ 1  u  iiiruA.y. 

"  \%  I  |ii<ni|f»  M  In  •.llriii  p, 
Ur(tnntii(>  u|>i'M  my  |ii>rin«,  runviili'ihiK,  liM|>riln||  l<>ii||, 
A  I'hntiiom  nn»»e  hrfnir  me  uUli  ill«iiiiMlvil  nH|nTl, 
Ti'iillilc  in  ln'unlv,  «})••,  nnil  |iii«fi, 
■|  lir  ni'nin*  nl  pin'ti  nl  nM  lundi, 
A«  In  nil-  itlrniinit  like  llnmc  (U  pym, 
Will)  (inun  |ii>ln(iny  In  tntinv  ttiinixtlitl  «n«m, 
And  nu'imclim  vi'ke,  11  A,it  sittjirst  tht'H  f  it  salil." 

And  t\v\\  in  plm ch  wlicrr  iho  ^olf  f'X.ilfnlion  of  llie  p«»et 
roKi  li(<i  its  most  «'xM;lva^:ll)l  ll(■i^llt,  as  in  tlic  follttwing  npim- 
troplu"  : 

"  I  Innnl  tint  yon  ml«'il  fur  xnnii'llilllji  tn  |irim<  ll)l«  |Hlf»ip  llir  Nrw  WimIiI. 
,\ni|  In  I'l'linr  Ainrtli'ii,  lii'i  mlililir  Uonnicincv, 
TluMi'ioir  I  Kciiil  yon  my  |i><fnii«  lliiti  y<<ii  lirlmlil  lit  llipin  mIihI  you  wntili'd." 

V,\v\\  tills  .iposlmplir  is  expicsslv  mlilicssnl  to  (oifijin  lumls. 

Tins  iiM  (illci  linn  lias  also  inspitcil  Wall  Whitman  willi  one  of 
liis  tnosi  roniaikahlo  poonis,  "  Saint  an  Mmnltv"  'I'lip  stionn 
fprlin^,'  ol  linininfj  part  ol  an  nil  roinpi«'lirinliii)<  world  wi«l«'  noli- 
tlarilv  llns  Ifrlin^  ol'liting  cmii  linl  Itv  llir  lilf  of  tin*  past  and 
tlio  ntanilold  lorins  ol  Innnan  cxisiciin'  findK  in  tliis  pooni  sin 
gnlarlv  vigorons  cxprossion,  and  prodin  rs  n  scries  ol"  images  with 
llie  roinproliensivoness  and  inslanlrtnemisnesR  ol  a  bird's-eye  view. 
It  is  it\  reality  n  winijed  fli^lit  llironuli  all  the  a^>es  ami  a<  ross  all 
the  world.  As  if  in  a  li^hlnin^  flasli,  whii  h  is  kindled  and  ex- 
pires in  the  same  moment,  we  see  the  Moom  and  det  line  of  na- 
tions, the  rlash  of  events,  the  might  and  ruin  of  i  ivilizations,  the 
peetiliarity  of  « limates  and  dilTerent  modes  of  life,  the  seductions 
and  tenors  of  natme,  the  whole  dashed  off  in  a  few  rapid  lines, 
l>iit  often  with  so  sine  an  intuition  that  the  reader  feels  the  imag. 
fastened  in  his  soul  as  an  abiding  possession.  Theie  me  nn- 
deniahlv  long  stretches  of  leaden  prose  in  between.  In  passages 
like  this —  • 

"  1  om  of  Mmlrid,  Cmlif,  llnrcelonn,  Oporti>,  Lyons,  nnimelR,  Heme,  Krntik* 
fort,  Stulltrnvl,  I'lnin,  I'lorence" — 

there  is  neither  poetry  tier  rhythm ;  yet  the  poet  returns  to  siini- 


II  1/  /•  II  mnn  v,  ///a;  rnnniA  umir.ty  niuniK  \i  y  ,^y 


llir    ptirl 
wiii^   opus 

Mpw  Woilil. 

|fiMi  wniili-'l." 

)  IrttnU. 
villi  (inc  iif 

TllC    Hll«»llf» 

I  wiflo  noll- 
lic  pnnt  nnd 
'<  p<«'t»  sill- 
Ulnars  witli 
's-ryc  view, 
il  itrKmn  all 
0(1  and  ex- 
lino  of  na- 
tations, till* 
RoduclinnH 
:ipi(l  linen, 
s  llie  iinag. 
10  arc  nn- 
In  passagca 

trine,  Frnitk* 

ns  to  simi- 


lar onnnH'ratioiiM   Imili  lioio  and   in  ollior  porniN  willi   ixmiImi 
liindnt'SM 

11)0  ,\,i>//i  .hniHiitH  A'lifcU'  (iir  Jannarv,  iHfiy.  Iimm  wiilt 
Niiirnnil  wtirdiH  Iwitloil  him  with  tliin  pmiliarily  ;  lai  hk  ic  mh 
ri'il,  luiwovrr,  oorlainly  i"»  ll»'  •  rilii  ol  tin-  IIVt/Hinnfi/  A',rt'U> 
wliin  lie  insislH  lli:it  tlicso  IIsIm,  wlnllior  llioy  srrvo  ti»  niiiko  llin 
uionl;d  liuri/nii  widor  and  t  loaror,  (»r  wlirthoi  llioy  aro  pinoly 
IVagniontary  «ir  nrrasiniial,  always  liavo  llio  Hanto  looling  nf  in 
lonso  vilalilv.  I  lit  jov  in  liMnian  lilo  and  in  tlio  inaniluld  pliaso^ 
(if  iiatnro  In  ronHoipiontly  inlilli^dtk*  to  m  cvni  In  llxme  i  aHOii 
wlioio  v.oiannot  sliaio  it  willi  liiin  ;  wo  aro  i  arrit'd  alini|{  with 
him  Itoi  ;ni4o  wo  havo  tdisorvod  ami  Icit  his  lull  liiiin  \»iwr\  oko 
whoro  ;  ami  ovoit  whon  tho  pnot's  vttli  o  wiiimN  InmrMO  ami  haisli 
to  ns.  we  noverthplcHs  Tool  that  ho  who  horo  iimirH  out  his  "  Imr- 
liarir  yawp  mor  tho  roofs  of  (ho  world  "  is  a  spiiit  whoso  wings 
roally  havo  power  lo  hoar  him  ovoiywhore.  Iliil  this  poom, 
"Saint  an  Momlo,"  also  shows  tho  way  lo  Iho  last  point  ni  dif- 
ferom  o  hotwoon  Wall  Whilman  ami  tho  pools  who  in  Iv.  opo 
spring  spiritnally  from  the  voiy  heart  (»f  the  people.  'I'lic  poetry 
whii  h  begins  with  sexual  (^loiilli  ation  as  nn  organii  operation  of 
natnro,  ends  in  boldly  taking  possession  of  tho  spirit  of  human- 
ily  ami  tho  whole  rontont  of  history  in  a  high  nolo  (tf  warning 
as  to  the  «ontinnily  of  the  Anioric  an  people.  For  sm  h  an  eagle 
(light  as  this  those  other  poet  natnros  wanted  lioth  wings  and  do- 
sire.  They  were  sonis  lull  of  spiritual  yoarnings,  motive  powers 
of  whole  oommnnitios,  ( apaMe  of  high  aspirations  Iml  not  of  at- 
taining the  last  heights.  Walt  Whitman  is  asonl  who  possossosiilji 
the  groat  fnmlamenlal  ideas,  lint  he  is  (ndy  able  oec  asionally  to  im- 
perferlly  lot  thorcnilenls  of  his  mimi  bla/e  forth  in  thoughts  wliii  h 
take  on  at  their  best  in  his  verse  the  glowing  beauty  ..f  newly 
last  preeions  metals.  His  admirers  regard  him  as  being  as  grejil 
a  thinker  as  po'  -  ,  in  reality,  he  is  a  heaving,  restless  ( ombina- 
tion  of  both.  Upon  him  tho  great  fundamental  print  ipio  of 
I'antheism.  as  understood  by  (lerman  thinkers  in  the  (Irst  throe- 
quarters  of  the  present  icnlury,  has  oxereised  the  same  power  of 
cm  hantmcnt  that  it  mcciiis  bound  to  exert  on  every  one  who 
awakens  to  life  in  the  higher  realms  of  thought.    The  gradations 


«44 


lA  RK   WAIT   WHITMAN. 


uiuler  which  all  the  poems  in  "  l.enves  of  Grass"  so  niHurally 
seem  to  fall  is  in  reality  only  the  Ameriranizetl  interpretation  of 
the  dogma  of  absolute  philosophy  of  the  unity  of  the  world  of 
spirit  nnd  natnre.  \\\  a  letter  to  the  atithor  of  these  lines  Walt 
Whitman  himself  names  Hegelianism  as  the  undercurrent  which 
fru<  tifies  his  views  of  life.  Thus  pantheistic  amal^ramation  agrees 
tip  to  a  certain  point  with  the  essence  of  democracy,  hut  beyond 
that  point  it  bee diucs  altogether  opposed  to  it  ;  and  this  split  Is 
plandy  recognizable  in  Wall  Whitman.  lie  plunges  with  the 
jov  of  a  swimmer  into  the  billows  ol  the  connnon  life  of  the 
nniverse,  where  one  form  conslintly  proceeds  from  another  as 
the  expression  of  t>ne  and  the  same  formative  energy,  lie  also 
joyfully  takes  tip  the  grand  thought  of  the  impossibility  of  evil, 
And  likes  to  look  upon  that  which  usually  scai\dalizes  men  as  an 
expression,  lawful  in  its  way,  oi'  life's  energies.  Hut  there  is  a 
boundarv  line  bevond  which  his  instincts  stubboridy  refuse  to  be 
earned  bv  this  » nrrent  \ipon  wliich  he  has  allowed  himself  so 
truslfuUv  to  be  borne  along.  The  democrat  who  uttered  the 
words  "  I  celebrate  myself"  will  not  be  satisfied  in  death  with 
flowing  back  into  the  circle  of  universal  being.  He  is  deter- 
mined to  have  his  individuality,  his  own  self,  along  with  him, 
on  the  other  side  of  the  dark  entrame.  From  moment  to  mo- 
ment !ie  lets  his  voice  ring  forth,  ipiestioning,  into  the  glotuii  of 
deaili,  and  proudlv  marks  how  the  vaulted  distance  echoes  back 
thesomid.  Wliitman's  fancv  rises  in  his  addresses  to  Death  to  an 
unusual  glow  of  color,  ami  this  exalted  iinil  religioiis  feeling  can 
be  discerned  ]ierhaps  n\ost  plainly  in  the  brief,  cold  conclusion 
of  the  epigrammatic  poem  "  Kespondez :  " 

"111  (lie  limitetl  Venrs  of  life  do  nothing  for  the  linutless  years  of  death! 
(Whnt  do  you  suppose  dcnth  will  do,  then?)  " 

If  one  asks,  once  for  all,  has  Walt  Whitman  any  peculiarly 
poetic  gifts  ?  the  answer  is,  that  the  evidence  of  such  is  undoubt- 
edly to  be  fotmd  in  hini.  and  ntnv  and  then  of  a  power  and 
purity  that  has  seldom  if  ever  been  surp.issed.  There  arc  images 
that  for  simplicity  and  directness  remind  us  of  the  Homeric  pic- 
tures, and  there  are  flights  of  fancy  of  tuarvcllous  grace  and 


I 


I 


10  n.Hurnlly 
[iretittioii  of 
H.'  world  of 
;  liiu-s  \V:ilt 
irrent  which 
ntion  agrees 
Itnt  hi'yond 
this  split  is 
;fs  with  the 
life  of  the 
I  another  as 
y.      lie  also 
ility  of  evil, 
^s  men  as  an 
It  there  is  a 
refuse  fo  be 
I   himself  so 
uttered  the 
(leath  with 
He  i^  deter- 
ig  with  him, 
lUMit  to  mo- 
le gloom  of 
erhoes  hark 
Death  to  an 
s  feeling  ran 
I  eonchision 

enrs  of  deiUhl 

y  peruliarly 
is  undoubt- 
power  h\m\ 
e  are  images 
iomerii:  pir- 
\  grace  and 


MALI  WHITMAN,  THK  POKT  OF  AMKIili'AN  DIJKHKAi  Y.  245 

viva(  ity.     Read,  for  instance,  the  following  fragments  of  a  poem 
which  has  for  title  the  author's  own  name  : 

"  A  rlilM  •snM  UTtnt  is  thf  x^iJsh  ?  fetching  it  In  me  with  full  liniid';  j 
!li)W  cinilil  I  nnswcr  tlie  child?   1  do  imt  kimw  wlml  ii  is  nny  inure  limn 
lie. 

1  guess  it   must  l)c  the  ling  of  my  tlis|)osilioii,  out  of  hopeful   grecii   sluU 
woven. 

Or  I  nuoss  it  is  the  hnndkerchief  of  the  l.nrd. 
A  seenlcd  gift  and  rememi)riiucer  designedly  dropl, 

llenriiiK  llie  owner's  imme  somewny  in  the  corners,  Ihnt  we  mny  see  niid 
reMi!irl<,  and  sny   W'hou-  ? 

Or  1  guess  the  ^rass  Is  itself  n  child,  the  produced  Imhe  of  llie  vegetation. 

Or  1  f;ness  it  is  n  uniform  liiero^1y|ihic, 

And  it  menus,  Sproutirn  nlil<e  in  hrond  roues  and  nnrrow  rones, 
(irowiu^  amon^  l)lacl<  foll<s  as  among  while,  ' 

Kamiik.  Turlcahoe,  lounressmnn,  luff,  1  give  them  the  same,  I  receive- 
them  the  same. 

And  now  it  seems  lo  me  the  benutifnl  nncut  hair  of  grn'es. 

Tentlerlv  will  I  use  you  curlintr  (;rass, 

It  may  lie  yon  transpire  from  the  lireasis  of  younn  men, 

It  mav  !ie  if  I  had  known  them  I  would  have  loved  them." 

This  fragment,  moreover,  |toints  back  to  the  constantly  recur« 
ring  title  "(Irass,"  which  Whitman  dwells  upon  everywhere 
with  peculiar  fondness  us  nature's  Democracy — it  being,  as  it 
were,  the  first  child  of  the  vegetable  kingdom — the  symbol  of 
the  new  spiritual  life  which  the  poet  very  well  knows  is  to  pro- 
ceed from  himself.  .   .   . 

The  scorn  with  which  Walt  Whitman  and  his  followers  con- 
stantly talk  about  "dulcet  rhymes"  is  explicable  when  one  has 
seen  B|)ecimens  of  this  sort  of  poetry  and  learns  that  a  young  and 
excitable  communily  has  been  fed  with  such  mental  fodder  from 
one  year's  end  to  the  other  without  any  remonstrance  on  the  part 
of  the  critics.  The  periodical  press  in  America,  althotigli  on  the 
whole  able  and  often  served  by  men  who  are  by  no  means  want- 


446 


IN  RE   WALT  WHITMAN. 


WA 


I  i 


ing  in  learning,  can  scarcely,  either  in  spirit  or  tendency,  be  re- 
garded as  an  aesthetic  production.  It  presents  everywhere  one 
and  the  same  uncertain  imitation  of  European  culture,  and  is 
without  any  essential  accord  with  the  life  of  the  people  whose 
spiritual  growth  it  is  supposed  to  judpe  and  guide.  What  from 
tiie  first  go-off  has  lowered  Walt  Whitman  in  the  eyes  of  these 
guardians  of  literature  is  his  democratic  origin.  A  self-made  man 
in  America  is  respected  in  American  business  life,  politics,  and 
society,  but  in  the  world  of  literature  a  free,  self-acquired  de- 
velopment makes  one  a  grotesque  and  offe;  jive  figure.  The 
superiority  which  lies  in  a  vigorously  lived  life,  with  its  manifold 
impressions,  the  critics  have  never  been  willing  to  recognize, 
although,  from  the  first,  it  was  pointed  out  to  them  by  one  of 
the  strongest  voices  in  American  literature.  In  such  expressions 
as  these — 

"  Walt  Whitman  a  cosmos,  of  Manhattan  the  son, 
Turbulent,  fleshy,  and  sensual,  eating,  drinking  and  breeding  " — 

they  missed  the  point  from  the  very  first — a  "cosmos"  which 
points  out  clearly  enough,  in  all  conscience,  that  the  author  un- 
der his  own  name  meant  to  express  a  type:  the  American  demo- 
crat, namely,  fully  and  vigorously  equipped — the  Adamic  figure 
of  the  Nineteenth  Century.  So,  without  more  ado,  they  re- 
garded the  audacious  words  as  the  unblushing  personal  revelp.- 
tions  of  a  crude  human  creature.  And  altliough  it  is  evident 
that  Walt  Whitman,  in  the  course  of  years,  has  clarified  the  ex- 
periences of  his  life  by  reading  and  science  of  the  most  manifold 
descrijition,  neverthe'ess  the  whole  numerous  herd  of  critics, 
who  themselves  are  not  able  to  express  a  single  word  which  goes 
to  the  very  nerve  of  society,  constantly  look  down  upon  a  genuine 
and  original  poetic  nature  out  of  unshaken  confidence  in  the 
superiority  which  a  cut  and  dried  method  of  exposition  is  pre- 
sumed to  give  them.  John  Burroughs'  book  is  like  the  stroke  of 
an  axe  in  this  virgin  forest  of  pettiness  and  wrong-headedness — 
it  is  written  so  boldly  and  ably.   .  .  . 

Walt  Whitman's  smaller  prose  works  make  1  peculiar  impres- 
sion ;   they  altogether   lack  the  swing  in  representation  which 


f 


ency,  be  re- 
rywhere  one 
Iture,  and  is 
jcople  whose 

What  from 
lyes  of  these 
If- made  man 
politics,  and 
icquired  de- 
ign re.  The 
its  manifold 
)  recognize, 
1  by  one  of 

expressions 


ding  "_ 

>os  "  which 
author  un- 
ican  demo- 
am  ic  figure 
o,  they  re- 
>nal  revel.".- 

is  evident 
led  the  ex- 
st  manifold 

of  critics, 
which  goes 
1  a  genuine 
nee  in  the 
tion  is  pre- 
e  stroke  of 
adedness — 

iar  impres- 
tion  which 


WALT  WHITMAN,  THE  POET  OF  AMERICAN  DEMOCRA  CV.  247 

journals  all  over  the  world  put  such  an  extraordinary  value  upon. 
The  poet  of  "  Leaves  of  Grass  "  has  no  faculty  for  the  sharp- 
spiced  meats  of  modern  journalism,  and  many  things  in  these 
essays  may  be  called  insignificant  from  a  literary  standpoint. 
But  he  who  has  once  come  to  love  Walt  Whitman  will  value  even 
these  small  works.  They  will  remind  him  of  the  Latin  verse 
which  says:  '•  Clay  vessels  saturated  with  wine  will  preserve  its 
fragrance  even  after  they  have  been  soused  with  water."  .   .   . 

"  Drum-Taps"  are  more  artistic  than  Wiiitman's  former  poems 
— the  real  poetic  essence  in  the  man's  nature  has  here  violently 
burst  forth.  .  .  . 

That  of  Whitman's  writings  which  leaves  the  strongest  impres- 
sion of  an  elevated  and  superior  mind,  a  glancing  with  penetra- 
tion upon  all  the  events  of  its  time  and  people,  and  the  clearest 
judgment  as  to  their  meaning  and  tendency,  is  his  little  prose 
book,  *'  Democratic  Vistas."  To  say  of  this  work  that  it  is  in 
its  kind  the  most  pregnant  thing  that  has  ever  been  written 
would  not  be  a  completely  correct  description,  for  the  work  is 
unique;  it  represents  quite  a  new  type  of  literary  production. 
The  fire  of  the  poet  and  the  lucidity  of  the  thinker  are  here 
united  with  the  marvellous  foresight  of  the  seer.  The  manifold 
elements  in  Wiiitman's  nature  are  in  this  book  woven  together 
into  a  prose  to  wliich  one  may  most  truly  apply  an  often  mis- 
used expression,  viz.,  that  it  resembles  a  stream  of  molten  noble 
metals.  And  the  simile  becomes  the  more  striking  when  we  re- 
member that  the  series  of  thoughts,  although  often  in  literary 
contradiction  with  the  rapid  course  of  words  employed,  neverthe- 
less harmonize  with  each  other  so  perfectly  that  they  point  to  a 
hidden  law  of  unity  in  the  author's  personality.  The  work  is 
built  upon  the  idea  that  public  spirit  is  not  created  by  institu- 
tions as  our  national  liberals  naively  imagine,  but  that  institutions 
themselves  will  infallibly  grow  rotten,  like  an  old  mill,  if  public 
spirit  is  not  constantly  at  work  propping  them  up  and  re-edify- 
ing them.  What  Whitman  aims  at  is  the  individual — his  prin- 
cii)le  and  will.  Whilst  public  opinion  in  America  generally  puts 
forward  railway  extension  and  technical  invention  as  the  imme- 
diate testimony  of  human  progress,  Walt  Whitman,  on  the  other 


1    I 


248 


IN  RE   WALT  WmnfAN. 


t 


hand,  insists  as  the  condition  of  true  advance  on  the  necessity 
of  a  new  race  of  poets,  orators,  folk-awakeners,  who,  born  of  the 
democratic  spirit,  shall  lift  the  masses  to  the  level  of  their  own 
thought.  Scarcely  anywhere  else  in  the  world  has  the  superficial 
democratic  mental  culture  been  submitted  to  such  a  scarifying 
criticism — the  real  democratic  programme  has  never  been  placed 
before  our  eyes  in  its  circumference  and  development  with  such 
a  prophetic  sureness. 

There  is  scarcely  a  single  movement  in  politics,  social  life  and 
literature  which  the  author  does  not  touch  with  the  finger  of 
genius  and  bring  under  a  surprising,  hitherto  unsuspected,  illu- 
mination. Every  fresh  time  that  we  take  up  the  book  it  reveals 
to  us  new  points  of  view  and  gives  us  an  ever-growing  impression 
of  the  depth  and  width  of  the  thoughts  contained  in  it.  In  this 
work,  which  in  so  miny  ways  proclaims  the  renaissance  of  life, 
the  poet's  fancy  makes  itself  felt,  penetrated  with  the  constantly 
recurring  thought  of  Death  also.  To  him  the  higliest  aim  of 
democratic  poetry  is  to  write  the  "  Song  of  Death/'  the  con- 
quest of  which,  to  Whitman,  is  only  anotjier  name  for  the  victory 
of  personality.  ... 


e  necessity 
born  of  the 
their  own 
superficial 
I  scarifying 
•een  placed 
;  with  such 


"LEAVES  OF  GRASS"   AND  MODERN 

SCIENCE. 


ial  life  and 
;  finger  of 
scted,  illu- 
k  it  reveals 
impression 
t.  In  this 
ice  of  life, 
constantly 
!st  aim  of 
'  the  con- 
the  victory 


By  RICHARD  MAURICE  BUCKE. 


Walt  Whitman  is  not  a  scientist  nor  in  any  sense  a  teacher 
of  science.  There  is  no  evidence  that  he  has  valued  or  studied 
technical  knowledge  in  any  of  its  numerous  departments.  His 
is  the  science  of  the  seer  or  poet  (but  always^of  the  modern 
seer),  which  comes  not  of  study  but  of  direct  insight.  It  is  not 
less  exact  than  that  of  the  scientist  and  is  more  comprehensive 
and  vital.  He  is  not  informed  (the  inside  of  him  is  not  formed) 
by  books.  He  hears  the  stars  of  heaven  whispering.  The  suns, 
the  grassy  mounds  of  graves,  Me  eternal  omnipresent  and  per- 
petual transfers  and  promotions  of  the  objective  universe,  tell 
him  the  open  secrets  that  so  few  ever  discover,  that  none  read  in 
books. 

Did  he  study  mythology?  Well,  perhaps  he  did,  if  he  ever 
studied  anything.  At  all  events,  he  has  mastered  it  and  has 
seen  and  taught  more  clearly,  I  think,  than  any  predecessor,  the 
central  fact  of  it,  viz.,  that  all  religions  are  really  one,  and  one 
only.  Merely  diflferent  languages,  each  expressing  the  same 
thing.  Exactly  as  "  Ich  weiss  nicht,"  "  Je  ne  sais  pas,"  and 
"  I  don't  know,"  all  mean  (are)  the  same.  So  in  a  truly  scien-  I 
tific  spirit  he  accepts  all  faiths  as  all  equally  divine — as  all  equally 
human — as  all  having  sprung  from  the  great  heart  of  man — as  all 
having  been  shaped  by  his  inspired  lips.  Bibles  and  religions 
are,  he  says,  divine,  but  they  have  all  grown  out  of  man  and  may  I 
grow  out  of  him  still.  It  is  he  that  gives  life  to  them,  not  they 
that  give  life  to  him.  ; 

He  is  not  an  Egyptologist,  but  has  perhaps  dipped  as  deep  a& 

(249) 


850 


TX  RK  WAIT  WilfTMAV, 


nny  in.iii  into  tlie  scrrct  of  the  far  Imck  rnco  that  icrtrejl  its  obe- 
lisks on  tho  Imnks  of  llio  vcncnthle,  vnst  mollicr,  the  Nile. 

lie  prol);»l)ly  knows  little  or  nothing  of  terhniiiil  physiology, 
hut  I'or  nil  that  in  "  Chihlien  of  Atlitm  "  he  has  lecogniRetl  and 
ni:te«l  upon  one  of  the  iloepcst  of  all  physiological  truths  (far  too 
wiilo  anti  ileep  to  hv  set  forth  here),  and  in  so  tloing  has  (on  the 
sn|)poHilion  that  his  work  will  live)  done  more  for  the  future  of 
the  Iniinan  rat  e  than  ull  the  physiologists  and  doctors  of  (his 
generation.  Kinerson  made  a  strennons  atlcm|)t  to  divert  Walt 
Whitman  front  his  purpose  as  contained  in  these,  the  most  vital 
ami  important  of  all  his,  poems,  luit  happily,  and  iiuleed  inevit- 
ahly,  without  success.  The  poet  knew  that  this  realm  also  be- 
longed to  him.  That  the  ftubidden  and  veiled  voices  had  to  be 
allowed  and  tmveiled.  That  the  indecent  voices  hatl  to  be  trans- 
figured, and  the  impure  voices  clarified,  and  that  he,  for  his  part, 
was  \U)\  permitted  to  press  his  fingers  across  his  moiilh,  but  had 
to  speak  ont  aiul  prove  to  a  skeptic  world  that  sexual  organs  and 
acts  are  not  vile,  but  more  thai»  all  else  illustrious.  This  achieve- 
nu'ut  of  his  is  (if  we  will  think  of  it)  a  result  of  profouiul,  and  at 
the  same  time  practical  (^not  bo  much  "  modern  "  as  future), 
science. 

j  Walt  Whitman  has  never  been  ( I  snpposc)  a  student  of  zoology, 
but  before  the  "  Origin  of  Species  "  was  published — back  in  the 
early  fifties — he  knew  why  the  animals  reminded  him  of  I  imself. 
That  he  had  passed  that  way  huge  times  ago,  and  had  neg- 
ligently dropped  the  luiman  tokens  th»t  they  exhibit,  him- 
self moving  forward  then  and  now  and  forever,  infinite  and 
omnigenous. 

The  so-called  nebular  hypothesis  and  the  whole  modern  theory 
of  evolution  seem  to  have  been  present  aiul  familiar  tt)  his  mind 
iVom  the  first.  Did  he  get  them  from  Laplace,  I.amarck  and  the 
"  Vestiges,"  or  did  he  himself  see  evolution  occurring  ?  The 
nebula  cohering  to  an  orb  ?  The  piling  of  the  long,  slow  strata? 
The  vast  vegetables  and  the  monstrous  sauroids  ?  The  latter 
view  seems  the  nu>re  likely. 

Without  study,  by  mere  observation  of  the  life  of  the  tncn  and 
women  around  him,  sec  the  depth  and  scope  of  his  political 


:     I 


"IKAVE'S  OF  an  ASS"  A  NO  MODERN  fiCIKNCR. 


a5» 


nml  snciologit  nl  tcarliiii^.  Nothing  short  of  nbnohitc  ctpmlily 
of  siirroinulinj^H— thi'  al)olilioii  of  iiitliviiliml  ov,  icrship,  the 
(lontictiidc  luiil  « iiiitciitpt  for  nil  ontwnnl  law  (the  inner  taking 
its  pln«:e),  the  perfccl  freedom  and  balance  of  the  sexes,  the 
rerognition  of  the  sarrctlncss  of  eat  li  iixlividtial,  faith  iii  the 
nitiniale  salvation  and  iierferlion  of  all  withont  ex«i'|ttion — will 
satisfy  him. 

Note  the  fii'ld  ho  covers.  I  low  he  totichcs  npon  or  dips  into 
all  concpivablc  siibjocts,  and  never  (as  far  as  I  know)  strikes  a 
false  note.  Ni  ver  of  course  covciing  or  intending  to  rover  the 
field,  he  e<pially  never  writes  a  line  «ir  word  inc  nnsistent  with 
any  part  of  the  truth  ;  his  insliiut  is  infallible;  his  insight  never 
at  fault ;  his  intuition  as  direct  and  sure  as  gravitation. 

If  this  be  true  where  we  can  check  him,  how  about  those  nu- 
merous passages  in  which  we  cannot  clici  k  him  ?    Docs  the  inner 
light  serve  him  HO  far  and  then  abandon  him?     Or  does  it  light 
his  path  in  these  obscure  regions  also  ?     To  me  this  is  a  (piestion  , 
of  (|uestiun9 ;  neither  am  I  in  doubt  as  to  its  answer, 


Oct.  •JO,  1890:  The  prospect  for  the  Ingersoll  meeting  to-morrow  night 
looks  well—  Horace  has  worked  like  a  l)eaver — Dr  B  is  here — I  feel  in  the 
midst  of  my  best  staunchest  friends. 

Oct.  22  :  Well  the  Ingersoll  lecture  came  off  last  ev'ng  in  Horticultural 
Hall,  Broad  st:  Phila. — a  noble,  (very  eulogistic  to  W  W  &  L  of  G) 
elo,-;uent  s].eech,  well  responded  to  by  the  audience.  There  were  1600  tO' 
-ooo  jieople  (choice  persons,)  one-third  women  (proceeds  to  me  $869.45). 
'  *r  t  over,  was  wheeled  on  the  stage  in  my  rattan  chair,  and  at  the  last  spoke- 
1  veiy  "W  words — A  splendid  success  for  Ingersoll  (&  me  too.)  Ing  :  had 
-.1  writtei        read  with  considerable  fire,  but  perfect  ease. 

Oct.  23  :  Have  read  (&  been  reading  all  through)  the  well  printed  com- 
plete essay  of  R  G  Ingersoll,  "  Liberty  &  Literature  " — &  it  permeates  & 
satisfies  &  explains  itself  splendidly  to  me,  brain  &  heart — (after  all,  I  want 
to  leisurely  read  &  dwell  on  any  profound  or  first-rate  piece— one  thing  is, 
my  hearing  is  not  to-day  real  good,  &  another  thing  probably  is  I  am  rather 
slow  anyhow). 

Walt  Whitman'' s  Journal. 


(252) 


LIBERTY   IN   LITERATURE. 


By  ROBERT  G.  hVGERSOLL. 


[This  lecture  was  delivered  as  a  benefit  to  Walt  Whitman,  in  Philadelphia, 
October  21,  1890.  Whitman  was  present  on  the  platform,  and  after  Colonel 
Ingersoll  had  finished  said :  "After  all,  my  friends,  the  main  factors  being 
the  curious  testimony  called  personal  presence  and  face  to  face  meeting,  I 
have  come  here  to  be  among  you  and  show  myself,  and  thank  you  with  my 
living  voice  for  coming,  and  Robert  Ingersoll  for  speaking.  And  so  with 
such  brief  testimony  of  showing  myself,  and  such  good  will  and  gratitude,  I 
bid  you  hail  and  farewell." — THE  Editors.] 

I. 

In  the  year  1855  the  American  people  knew  but  '  ;le  of  books. 
Their  ideals,  their  models,  were  English.  Young  ar  Pollok, 
Addison  and  Watts  were  regarded  as  great  poet:  Sc.nj  of  the 
more  reckless  read  Thomson's  "Seasons"  and  the  poems  and 
novels  of  Sir  Walter  Scott.  A  few,  not  quite  ortho:'ox,  delighted 
in  the  mechanical  monotony  of  Pope,  and  the  really  wicked — 
those  lost  to  all  religious  shame — were  worsh  ""rs  of  Shakspere. 
The  really  orthodox  Protestant,  untroubled  by  doubts,  consid- 
ered Milton  the  greatest  poet  of  them  all.  Byron  and  Shelley 
were  hardly  respectable — not  to  be  read  by  young  persons.  It 
was  admitted  on  all  hands  that  Burns  was  a  child  of  nature  of 
whom  his  mother  was  ashamed  and  proud. 

In  the  blessed  year  aforesaid,  candor,  free  and  sincere  speech, 
were  under  the  ban.  Creeds  at  that  time  were  entrenched  be- 
hind statutes,  prejudice,  custom,  ignorance,  stupidity,  puritan- 
ism  and  slavery ;  that  is  to  say,  slavery  of  mind  and  body. 

Of  course  it  always  has  been,  and  forever  will  be,  impossible 
for  slavery,  or  any  kind  or  form  of  injustice,  to  produce  a  great 
poet.     There  are  hundreds  of  verse  makers  and  writers  on  the  side 

(253)  • 


«S4 


JN  KK   WALT   WniTMAS. 


\ 


( 


of  wrong — cnenucs  of  progress — but  they  arc  not  poets,  they  are 
not  men  of  genius. 

At  tliis  time  u  young  man — he  to  whom  this  testimonial  is 
givcii — lie  upon  whoso  head  have  falh-n  tlic  snows  of  more  than 
seventy  winters — this  man,  horn  within  tiic  sound  of  tlic  sea, 
gave  to  the  world  a  book,  "  I  eaves  of  Cirass."  'I'liis  book  was, 
and  is,  the  true  transcript  of  a  soul.  Tlie  man  isimmaskeil.  No 
dra|)eiy  of  hypocrisy,  no  pretense,  no  fear.  'I'he  book  was  as 
original  in  form  as  in  thought.  All  customs  were  forgotten  or 
disregarded,  all  rules  broken — nothing  mechanical — no  imitation 
— spontaneous,  running  and  wintling  like  a  river,  multitudinous 
in  its  thoughts  as  the  waves  of  the  sea — nothing  mathematical  or 
measured.  In  everything  a  touch  of  chaos — lacking  what  is 
called  form  as  clouds  lack  form,  but  not  l."(  king  the  splendor  of 
sunrise  or  the  glory  of  sunset.  It  was  a  mar  -llous  collection  and 
aggregation  of  fragments,  hints,  suggestions,  memories  and 
prophecies,  weeds  and  flowers,  clouds  and  clods,  sights  and 
sounds,  emotions  and  passions,  waves,  shadows  and  constella- 
tions. 

His  book  was  received  by  many  with  disdain,  with  horror, 
with  indignation  and  i)rotest — by  the  few  as  a  marvellous, 
almost  miraculous,  message  to  the  world — full  of  thought,  philos- 
ophy, j)oetry  and  nnisic. 

In  the  republic  of  mediocrity  genius  is  dangerous.  A  great 
soul  appears  and  fills  the  world  with  new  and  marvellous  harmo- 
nies. In  his  words  is  the  old  Promethean  flame.  The  heart  of 
nature  bents  and  throbs  in  his  line.  The  respectable  i)rudes  and 
pedagogues  sound  the  alarm,  and  cry,  or  rather  screech  :  "  Is  this 
a  book  for  a  young  person  ?  " 

A  poem  true  to  life  as  a  Greek  statue — candid  as  nature — fills 
these  barren  souls  with  fear. 

They  forget  that  drapery  about  the  perfect  was  suggested  by 
immodesty. 

The  provincial  prudes,  and  others  of  like  mold,  pretend  that 
love  is  a  duty  rather  than  a  passion — a  kind  of  self-denial — not 
an  over-mastering  joy.  They  preach  the  gospel  of  pretense  and 
pantalettes.    In  the  presence  of  sincerity,  of  truth,  they  cast  down 


UBKIiTY  IN  LirEllArVliK. 


•55* 


-fills 


their  eyes  and  endeavor  to  feel  immodest.     To  them,  tlie  most 
beatitinii  tiling  is  liypocrisy  adorned  with  n  blush. 

Tiicy  have  no  idea  ol  an  honest,  pure  passion,  glorying  in  Its 
strength — inti-nso,  intoxicated  with  the  heantiriil,  giving  even  to 
inanimate  things  pulse  and  motion,  and  that  transfigures,  cn> 
nobles,  and  idealizes  the  object  of  its  adoration. 

They  do  not  walk  the  streets  of  the  cily  of  life — they  ex|)lore 
the  sewers;  they  stand  in  the  gutters  and  cry  "Unclean!" 
They  i)retend  that  beauty  is  a  snare  ;  that  love  is  a  Delilah  ;  that 
the  highway  of  joy  is  the  broad  road,  lined  with  flowers  and  filled 
with  perfume,  leading  to  the  city  of  eternal  sorrow. 

Since  the  year  1855  the  Anieriian  people  have  developed; 
they  are  somewhat  a(  (piainted  with  the  literature  of  the  world. 
'I'hey  have  witnessed  the  most  tremendous  of  revolutions,  not  only 
upon  the  fields  of  battle,  but  in  the  world  of  thought.  The 
American  citizen  has  concluded  that  it  is  hardly  worth  while 
being  a  sovereign  unless  he  has  the  right  to  think  for  himself. 

And  now,  from  this  height,  with  the  vantage-ground  of  to-day,. 
I  propose  to  examine  this  book  and  to  state,  in  a  general  way, 
what  Walt  Whitman  has  done,  what  he  has  accomplisheil,  and 
the  place  he  has  won  in  the  world  of  thought. 

II. -THE  RELIGION    OF  THE  BODY. 

Walt  Whitman  stood,  when  he  published  his  book,  where  all' 
stand  to-night — on  the  perpetually  moving  line  where  history  ends 
and  prophecy  begins.  He  was  fidi  of  life  to  the  very  tips  of  his 
fingers — brave,  eager,  candid,  joyous  with  health.  He  was- 
acquainted  with  the  past.  He  knew  something  of  song  and  story, 
of  philosophy  and  art — much  of  the  heroic  dead,  of  brave  suffer- 
ing, of  the  thoughts  of  men,  the  habits  of  the  peojile — rich  as 
well  as  poor — familiar  with  labor,  a  friend  of  wind  and  wave, 
touched  by  love  and  friendship — liking  the  open  road,  enjoying 
the  fieUls  and  paths,  the  crags — friend  of  the  forest — feeling  that 
he  was  free — neither  master  nor  slave — willing  that  all  should 
know  his  thoughts — open  as  the  sky,  candid  as  nature — and  he 
gave  his  thoughts,  his  dreams,  his  conclusions,  his  hopes,  and. 
his  mental  portrait  to  his  fellow-men. 


*5fi 


/iV  KK  WArr  nil  UMAX. 


1 


Wall  NVItitmnn  aniiDimrcil  iho  gospol  ttf  llic  liody.  He  con* 
(VoMli'il  tlio  iM'oplc.  \\v  ttonicd  llio  depravity  ol'  mnti,  lli<  iii- 
nistnl  lltiU  lovo  in  tiitl  ii  rrinic  ;  that  luci)  iiiid  wnntrn  slioiilil  lie 
prontlly  iiatiiriil  ;  tltat  tlu>y  nccti  nol  ({rovcl  on  the  (MiiIi  nitil 
cover  tlieir  liires  lor  Hhitiiu*.  Hi*  taught  the  iliKiiily  and  glory  of 
tlu*  fallier  «nd  inolhrr  ;  the  srtt  ri'dnoMH  of  luiUeniity. 

Maternity,  tender  and  pure  an  the  tear  of  pity,  holy  ni  snfTcr- 
inn     ll\('  «  rown,  the  lluwor,  llio  erslasv  o(  love. 

IVopIc  had  been  lan^ht  Irtnn  bibles  and  I'loni  (reeds  that 
maternity  was  i\  kind  oi' crime ;  that  the  woman  shonld  lie 
piirilieil  l)y  sonu'  ceremony  in  some  temple  bnill  in  lionor 
of  some  xod.  This  barbarism  was  attacked  in  "  l,ea\es  of 
(trass." 

Tlie  f^lorv  of  simple  life  was  snng  j  a  declaration  of  indepond- 
c)\(  e  was  n\ade  for  ea«  h  and  all. 

And  yet  this  appeal  to  maidiood  and  fo  womanhood  wan  mis- 
tmderstotul.  It  was  denonni  (>d  sin\plv  because  it  was  in  har« 
,  monv  with  the  great  trend  of  nature.  To  mo,  the  most  obscene 
1  word  in  onr  language  is  celibacy. 

It  was  not  the  fashion  ibr  people  to  speak  or  write  their 
thoughts.  We  were  flooded  with  the  literature  of  hypoi  risy. 
The  writers  ilid  not  failhl'ully  desiribe  the  worlds  in  which  they 
lived.  They  endeavoretl  to  make  a  fashionable  world.  They 
pretended  that  the  cottage  or  the  hut  in  which  they  dwelt  was  a 
l)alace,  and  they  called  the  little  area  in  which  they  threw  their 
slops  their  domain,  their  realm,  their  empire.  They  were 
ashamed  of  the  real,  of  what  their  world  acluallv  was.  They 
imitate*! ;  that  is  to  say,  they  tt)ld  lies,  and  these  lies  filletl  the 
literature  of  nu)st  lands. 

Walt  Whitman  defended  the  sacredness  of  love,  the  purity  of 
passion — the  passion  that  builds  every  home  and  fills  the  world 
with  art  and  song. 

They  cried  out :  "  He  is  a  defender  of  passion — he  is  a  liber- 
tine !     He  lives  in  the  mire.     He  lacks  spirituality  I  " 

Whoever  difTers  with  the  multitude,  cspc«ially  with  a  led  nnil- 
titude — that  is  to  say,  with  a  multitude  of  taggers — will  find  out 
from  their  leaders  that  he  has  committed  an  unpardonable  sin. 


; 


f 


Liin.RiY  IS  i.irhiiM'UHh:. 


•57 


It  is  ft  I  rliiu'  lo  Iravi'l  a  rond  of  your  own,  enpocially  if  you  put 
ii|i  ^iiitlt'-lioaids  (or  tlit*  iiiroriiiiilinn  of  ntlicrK. 

Miiny,  iiiiiny  <  rniiii  icn  a^w  MpimiuH,  tlic  ){r«'iitent  iiian  of  liin 
« fiitury,  and  of  many  (onluncs  before  and  alter,  mud  :  "  llappi* 
ncHH  in  the  only  ((ood  ;  liappinom  in  the  Miprenie  end."  'ridn 
man  was  temperate,  IrnKal,  generoiin,  noble  -and  yet  throuf(h  all 
these  years  lie  has  been  denmnired  by  tlie  hypoi  riles  of  llie 
>v(irld  as  a  mere  eater  and  drinker. 

It  wan  said  that  Whitman  had  exa^^erated  the  important c  of 
love — that  he  had  made  too  nnii  h  of  this  passion.  |,et  mc  say 
that  no  poet  not  excepting  Shakspere  -has  had  ima){inalioM 
enough  to  exa^geiate  tiie  inipoitaiue  of  human  love  a  passion 
that  ( ontnins  all  hei^hts  and  all  depths— ample  as  spaei*,  with  a 
sky  in  wlii(  h  glitter  all  ronstellations,  and  that  has  witliin  it  all 
storms,  all  li^htnin^s,  all  wre<  ks  and  ruins,  all  griefs,  all  sorrows, 
all  shadows,  and  .ill  the  joy  and  sunshine  of  which  the  heart  an<l 
brain  are  ( apable. 

No  writer  nuist  be  measured  by  a  word  or  paragraph.  He  in 
to  be  measured  by  his  work — by  the  tenden<  y,  not  of  one  line, 
l)Ut  by  the  tendem  y  of  al'. 

Wliii  h  w.iy  does  the  jrrat  stream  tend  ?  Is  it  for  good 
or  evil  ?  Are  the  motives  liigli  and  noble,  or  low  and  in- 
famous ? 

We  cannot  measure  Shakspere  by  a  few  lines,  neither  can  we 
measure  the  Hible  by  a  few  chapters,  nor  "Leaves  of  (Irass" 
by  a  few  paragraphs.  In  each  there  are  many  things  that  1 
neither  approve  nor  believe— but  in  all  books  you  will  finil  a 
tningling  of  wisdom  and  foolishness,  of  prophecies  and  mistakes 
— in  other  wortis,  aniong  the  excellencies  there  will  be  defects. 
The  mine  is  not  all  gold,  or  all  silver,  or  all  diamonds — there 
arc  baser  metals.  The  trees  of  the  forest  are  not  all  of  one  size. 
On  some  of  the  highest  there  are  dead  antl  useless  lindjs,  and 
there  n»ay  be  growing  beneath  the  bushes,  weeds,  and  now  and 
then  a  poisonous  vine. 

If  I  were  to  edit  the  great  books  of  the  world,  I  might  leave 
out  some  lines  and  I  might  leave  out  the  best.     I  have  no  right  | 
to  make  of  my  brain  a  .sieve  and  say  that  only  that  which  passes/ 
•  7 


II 


«S8 


IN  RE   WALT  WHITMAN. 


..I 


through  belongs  to  the  rest  of  the  liuman  race.     I  claim  the 
right  to  choose.     I  give  tliat  right  to  all. 

Walt  Whitman  had  the  courage  to  express  his  thought — tlie 
candor  to  tell  the  truth.  And  here  let  me  say  it  gives  me  joy — 
a  kind  of  perfect  satisfaction — to  look  above  the  bigoted  bats, 
the  satisfied  owls  and  wrens  and  chickadees,  and  see  the  great 
eagle  poised,  circling  higher  and  higher,  unconscious  of  their 
existence.  And  it  gives  me  joy,  a  kind  of  perfect  satisfaction, 
to  look  above  the  petty  passions  and  jealousies  of  small  and 
respectable  people — above  the  considerations  of  place  and  power 
and  reputation,  and  see  a  brave,  intrepid  man. 

It  must  be  remembered  that  the  American  people  had  sepa- 
rated from  the  Old  World — that  we  had  declared  not  only  the  in- 
dependence of  colonies,  but  the  independence  of  the  individual. 
We  had  done  more — we  had  declared  that  the  state  could  no 
longer  be  ruled  by  the  Church,  and  that  the  Church  could  not 
be  ruled  by  the  state,  and  that  the  individual  could  not  be  ruled 
by  the  Church.  These  declarations  were  in  danger  of  being  for- 
gotten. We  needed  a  new  voice,  sonorous,  loud  and  clear,  a 
new  poet  for  America  for  the  new  epoch,  somebody  to  chant  the 
morning  song  of  the  new  day. 

The  great  man  who  gives  a  true  transcript  of  his  mind  fasci- 
nates and  instructs.  Most  writers  suppress  individuality.  They 
wish  to  please  the  public.  They  flatter  the  stupid  and  pander  to 
the  prejudice  of  theii  readers.  They  write  for  the  market — 
making  books  as  other  mechanics  make  shoes.  They  have  no 
message — they  bear  no  torch — they  are  simply  the  slaves  of  cus- 
tomers. The  books  they  manufacture  are  handled  by  "  the 
trade;"  they  are  regarded  as  harmless.  The  pulpit  does  not 
object ;  the  young  person  can  read  the  monotonous  pages  with- 
out a  blush — or  a  thought.  On  the  title  pages  of  these  books 
you  will  find  the  imprint  of  the  great  publishers — on  tlie  rest  of 
the  pages  nothing.  These  books  might  be  prescribed  for  in- 
somnia. 

III. 

Men  of  talent,  men  of  business,  touch  life  upon  few  sides. 


r  ■• 


'■-  V 


LIBERTY  IN  LITERATURE. 


259 


They  travel  but  the  beaten  path.  The  creative  spirit  is  not  in 
them.  They  regard  with  suspicion  a  poet  who  touches  life  on 
every  side.  They  liave  little  confidence  in  that  divine  thing 
called  sympathy,  and  they  do  not  and  cannot  understand  the 
man  who  enters  into  the  hopes,  the  aims,  and  the  feelings  of  all 
others. 

In  all  genius  there  is  the  touch  of  chaos — a  little  of  the  vaga- 
bond ;  and  the  successful  tradesman,  the  man  who  buys  and  sells, 
or  manages  a  bank,  does  not  care  to  deal  with  a  person  wlio  has 
only  poems  for  collaterals — they  have  a  little  fear  of  such  peo- 
ple, and  regard  them  as  the  awkward  countryman  does  a  sleight- 
of-hand  performer. 

In  every  age  in  which  books  have  been  produced  the  govern- 
ing class,  the  respectable,  have  been  opposed  to  the  works  of  real 
genius.  If  what  are  known  as  the  best  people  could  have  had 
their  way,  if  the  pulpit  had  been  consulted — the  provincial  mor- 
alists— the  works  of  Shakspere  would  have  been  suppressed. 
Not  a  line  would  have  reached  our  time.  And  the  same  may  be 
said  of  every  dramatist  of  his  age. 

If  the  Scotch  Kirk  could  have  decided,  nothing  would  have 
been  known  of  Robert  Burns.  If  the  good  people,  the  orthodox, 
could  have  had  their  say,  not  one  line  of  Voltaire  would  now  be 
known.  All  the  plates  of  the  French  Encyclopedia  would  have 
been  destroyed  with  the  thousands  that  were  destroyed.  Nothing 
would  have  been  known  of  D'Alerobert,  Grimm,  Diderot,  or  any 
of  the  Titans  who  warred  against  the  thrones  and  altars  and  laid 
the  foundation  of  modern  literature  not  only,  but,  what  is  of  far 
greater  moment,  universal  education. 

It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  every  book  now  held  in  high 
esteem  would  have  been  destroyed  if  those  in  authority  could 
have  had  their  will.  Every  book  of  modern  times  that  has  a  real 
value,  that  iias  enlarged  the  intellectual  horizon  of  mankind,  that 
has  developed  the  brain,  that  has  furnished  real  food  for  thought, 
can  be  found  in  the  Index  Expurgatorius  of  the  Papacy,  and 
nearly  every  one  has  been  commended  to  the  free  minds  of  men 
by  the  denunciations  ot  Protestants. 

If  the  guardians  of  society  the  protectors  of  "  young  persons,'" 


^<l 


26o 


IN  RE   WALT  WHITMAN. 


t 


f: 


could  have  had  their  way,  we  sliould  have  known  nothing  of 
Byron  or  Shelley.  The  voices  that  thrill  the  world  would  now 
be  silent.  If  authority  could  have  had  its  way,  the  world  would 
have  been  as  ignorant  now  as  it  was  when  our  ancestors  lived  in 
holes  or  hung  from  tlead  limbs  by  their  prehensile  tails. 

But  we  are  not  forced  to  go  very  far  back.  If  Shakspere 
liad  been  published  for  the  first  time  now,  those  divine  plays — 
greater  than  continents  and  seas,  greater  even  than  the  constella- 
tions of  the  midnight  sky — would  be  excluded  from  the  mails 
by  the  decision  of  the  present  enlightened  postmaster-general. 

The  j)oets  have  always  lived  in  an  ideal  world,  and  that  ideal 
-world  has  always  been  far  better  than  the  real  world.  As  a  con- 
sequence, they  have  forever  roused,  not  simply  the  imagination, 
but  the  energies — the  enthusiasm  of  the  human  race. 

Tlie  great  poets  have  been  on  the  side  of  the  oppressed — of 
the  downtrodden.  They  have  suffered  with  the  imprisonetl  and 
the  enslaved,  and  whenever  and  wherever  man  has  suffered  for 
the  right,  wherever  the  hero  has  been  stricken  down — whether  on 
field  or  scaffold — some  man  of  genius  has  walked  by  his  side,  and 
some  poet  has  given  form  and  expression,  not  simply  to  his 
deeds,  but  to  his  aspirations. 

From  the  Greek  and  Roman  world  we  still  'near  the  voices  of 
a  few.  The  ])oets,  Uie  philosophers,  the  artists  and  the  orators 
still  speak.  Countless  millions  have  been  covered  by  the  waves 
of  oblivion,  but  the  few  who  uttered  the  elemental  truths,  who  had 
sympathy  for  the  whole  human  race,  and  who  were  great  enough 
to  prophesy  a  grander  day,  are  as  ab've  to-night  as  when  they 
roused,  by  their  bodily  presence,  by  thti  living  voices,  by  their 
works  of  art,  the  enthusiasm  of  their  fellow-men. 

Think  of  the  respectable  people,  of  the  men  of  wealth  and 
position,  those  who  dwelt  in  mansions,  children  of  success,  who 
went  down  to  the  grave  voiceless,  and  whose  names  we  do  not 
know.  Think  of  the  vast  multitudes,  the  endless  i)rocessions, 
that  entered  the  caverns  of  eternal  night — leaving  rio  thought — 
no  truth  as  a  legacy  to  mankind ! 

The  great  poets  have  sympathized  with  the  people.  They 
have  uttered  in  all  ages  the  human  cry.     Unbought  by  gold,  un- 


LIBERTY  IN  LITERATURE, 


261 


awed  by  power,  they  have  lifted  high  the  torch  that  illuminates 
the  world. 

IV. 

Walt  Whitman  is  in  the  highest  s^nse  a  believer  in  democracy. 
He  knows  that  there  is  but  one  excuse  for  government — the 
preservation  of  liberty  ;  to  the  end  that  man  may  be  happy.  He 
knows  that  there  is  but  one  excuse  for  any  institution,  secular 
or  religious  —  the  preservation  of  liberty;  and  that  there  is  but 
one  excuse  for  schools,  for  universal  education,  for  the  ascertain- 
ment of  facts,  namely,  the  preservation  of  liberty.  He  resents 
the  arrogance  and  cruelty  of  power.  He  has  sworn  never  to  be 
tyrant  or  slave.     He  has  solemnly  declared  : 

"  I  speak  the  pass-word  primeval,  I  give  the  sign  of  democracy, 
By  God  !     I  will  accept  nothini;  which  all  cannot  have  their  counterpart  of 
on  the  same  terms." 

This  one  declaration  covers  the  entire  ground.  It  is  a  decla- 
ration of  indci)endcnce,  and  it  is  also  a  declaration  cf  justice,  that 
is  to  say,  a  declaration  of  the  independence  of  the  individual,, 
and  a  declaration  that  all  shall  be  free.  The  man  who  has  this 
spirit  can  truthfully  say  : 

"I  have  taken  off  my  hat  to  nothing  known  or  unknown. 
I  am  for  those  that  have  never  been  master'd." 

There  is  in  Whitman  what  he  calls  "  the  boundless  impatience 
of  restraint " — together  with  that  cense  of  justice  which  com- 
pelled him  to  say,  "  Neither  a  servant  nor  a  master  am  I." 

He  was  wise  enough  to  know  that  giving  others  the  same 
rights  that  he  claims  for  himse'f  could  not  harm  him,  and  he  was 
great  enough  to  say:  "As  if  it  were  not  indispensable  to  my 
own  rigiits  that  others  possess  the  same." 

He  felt  as  all  should  feel,  that   the  liberty  of  no  man   is  safe  ! 
unless  the  liberty  of  each  is  safe.  ' 

There  is  in  our  countiy  a  little  of  the  old  servile  spirit,  a  little 
of  the  bov,'ing  and  cringing  to  others.  Many  Americans  do  not 
understand  that  the  officers  of  the  government  are  simply  the 
servants  v(  the  people.     Nothing  is  so  demoralizing  as  the  wor- 


a63 


IN  UK    WALT   WnmiAX. 


yliip  of  place.     Wliilinau  has  rcmintkv'    he  pfopic  rf  llii"  coun- 
try tliat  they  arc  siij)ieiuc,  and  he  h  's  said  to  thciu  : 

"The  I'rcsidcnl  is  llierc  in  llio  While  IloUiif  ;••!   yo;»,  ii  i    noi  ;  m  who  art 

licrr  for  him, 
■{'he  Scii'Miuii's  net  in  ihcir  Imrcnus  for  y>u,  no\  voii  i.urr  for  (h»-m.  ,  .  . 
Koi'Iriiies,  |)<;litic<)  lUul  civilizntion  rxiirj;''  lo-iu  y.»u, 
.Seiil|<turc  nnd  ntonumcnU  and  nny  thin^  inHcribcd  anywhere  arc  tallied  in 

you," 

Ho  tlcsiribes  the  ideal  American  citizen — the  one  who 

"  Snys  indilTcrcntly  and  nliUc  '  llo'.v  nre  you,  friend  ? '  <o  the   President  at  his 
lovec, 
And  he  "inys  *  llood-dny,  my  brother,'  to   Ciidjje  tlint  hoes    n  the  8Ugar> 
field." 

I-ong  a^o,  wlien  tlte  pohlicians  were  wrong,  when  the  judges 
were  subservient,  when  tiio  i)uli)it  was  a  cowanl,  Walt  Whitman 
shouted  : 

"  Mun  -liiill  not  hold  property  in  n>i\n. 

"i  III'  least  dcvi'lo|i'd  iHMson  on  i-urlh  is  ju^t  ;>»  im|HKtnnt  and  snored  to  him- 
si'ltor  herself  ns  the  most  develop'd  person  is  to  himself  or  herself," 

'I'his  is  thi"  very  sotil  of  true  democracy. 

Hcanty  is  not  all  there  is  of  poetry.  It  ninst  contain  the 
(tilth.  It  is  not  simply  an  oak,  rtide  and  f;r,<ii  1,  neither  is  it 
simi)ly  a  vino.  It  is  both.  Aromui  the  oak  -i  truth  runr.  the 
vino  of  boaiity. 

W.ilt  Wliitman  utters  the  elemental  tniths  and  is  the  poet  of 
tlemoi  racy.     He  is  also  tlte  poet  o(  individivtlily. 

V.-INr)IVIi:)lJAlJTY. 

In  order  to  protect  the  liberties  of  a  nation,  we  must  protect 
the  iiuiivithial.  *  'democracy  is  a  nation  of  free  individuals. 
'r..£  iudiviihials  ..•  :  )t  to  be  sacrificed  to  the  nation.  Tiie  na- 
tion exists  only  i...  inc  jnirposo  of  guarding  and  protecting  the 
individuality  of  men  and  women.  Walt  Wliitman  h.is  told  us 
that :  "  The  whole  theory  of  the  universe  is  directed  unerringly 
to  one  single  individual — namely  to  You." 


I.HiKltTY  IN  LlTK/iATUHh:  363 

Ami  hr  !,;i,  :.l.     old  us  tluit  tlic  greatest  city — the  prcaipst  na- 
tion— is  "  whtJC  liic  ciliacn  is  always  the  head  rnd  ideal." 
And  that 

"  A  );icnt  city  is  lluit  wliJch  \w*  the  prcniest  men  nnd  \v(iincn, 
ir  it  lie  n  tew  rajrgcil  InitJi  it  is  Mill  the  greatest  rity  in  the  whulo  world." 

Hy  this  test  ninybc  the  greatest  city  on  the  continent  to-night 
is  Camden. 

This  poet  has  asked  of  us  this  question  : 

"  What  do  you  Huppose  will  satisfy  the  soul,  except  to  walk  free  and  own  no 
superior?" 

The  man  who  asks  this  (jticslion  has  left  no  impress  of  his  lijs 
in  the  dust,  and  has  no  dirt  tipon  his  knees, 
lie  wag  great  enotigh  to  say  : 

"  The  soul  hns  that  measureless  nridc  which  revolts  from  every  lesson  hut  its 


He  carries  the  idea  of  individuality  to  its  utmost  height: 

"  Wh.1t  do  you  suppose  I  would  intininic  io  you  in  i\  hundred  ways,  but  that 
ninn  or  woninn  is  as  (toimI  ns  (iod  ? 
And  that  there  is  no  (Iod  any  nmre  divine  llinn  Vt>ui.self  ?  " 


i 


Ghirying  in  individuality,  in  the  freedom  of  the  soul,  he  cries 


out 


*?! 


'O  to  strURple  ajjninst  (jrcat  n(hls,  to  meet  enemies  undaunted!  < 

Ti)  l)c  entirely  alime  widi  them,  to  lind  how  much  one  can  standi 
■fo  look  strife,  torture,  prison,  |iopular  odium,  face  to  face ! 
To  mount  the  scnfluld,  to  advance  to  the  muzzles  of  guns  with  perfect  non- 
chalance I 
To  he  indeed  a  iJod  1 " 


And  again  : 

"O  the  joy  of  a  manly  selfhood ! 
To  l)c  servile  to  none,  to  defer  to  none,  not  to  any  tyrant  known  or  unknown, 
To  walk  with  creel  CTrriajje,  a  step  sprin^jy  and  elastic. 
To  look  with  cahn  ^ar.e  or  with  a  flashiu);  eye. 


^i>: ; 


r    3  ! 
I 


■t-'V^- 


i 


»t 


1^4 


tiv  NH  WAf.r  unii^AX, 


I'll  (pf.'l*  with  n  I\i1l  ntui  nonoi-niu  viiirr  o\\\  of  n  lituml  rlli>«f, 

1*0  col(0>i»ii  with  ymir  prrnminlily  all  ilie  mlipr  prMrxmlHiefi  of  the  f«i1Ii." 

VVrtIt  Wliitmnn  is  willing  lo  Mnml  alone.  He  is  sniVu  iont  nnio 
hinisrir,  nnd  he  srtyst 

"  Ilencefoilli  I  nnk  i)i>i  mmil  fninuu",  I  iiiy«('lt  nin  nmtd  lotlune." 

•'Stn>t»|{  mill  conieiit  I  (invel  ihe  n\^c\\  toml." 

He  is  one  of 

'•  Thois  llint  InnU  inrcle«»ty  in  the  fiiccs  of  I'leslilcnis  niul  Viovernorn,  ns  lo 
Krty  '  Who  ni^e  you ? '" 

And  not  only  llus,  l>iil  lio  has  the  rontage  to  s.ty :  "  Nnlhing» 
not  (lod,  is  grcrtler  to  one  lli.tn  one's  self." 

Wall  Whilncni  is  Iho  port  o(  Iniliviihialilv— the  ilfrfmler  of 
♦lie  tighl'<  o\'  vm\\  for  tho  sake  of  all — and  his  svtnpallncs  nre  as 
wiiU"  !\s  the  woiM.      He  is  the  deleiuiei  of  the  whole  ime. 

VI.-miMANHY. 

The  great  poet  is  intensely  lunuan — infinitely  svnipiuhetir— - 
entering  into  the  joys  itnd  griefs  of  others,  bearing  their  hnnlens, 
knowing  their  sorrows.  Hrain  withont  heart  is  n»>!  nnuli  ;  they 
tnnst  ad  together.  Wheti  the  respi'i  tahle  people  of  the  Not  ill, 
the  rii  h.  the  snci  essfnl,  were  willing  to  <  arrv  ont  the  Kiigitive 
Slave  law,  Wall  Whitman  said  : 

"  I  <\n\  \]\e  houMilrit  ntnve,  I  wltu-c  nt  thp  Mtr  of  the  ilo(js, 
Holl  a\\>\  ili>«|>!\ii-  nrt'  «pon  mr.  ctnrk  nml  njinin  rrm-U  tlu-  mmUsinpn, 
1  iliitcli  (hr  vrtiln  of  the  IVtue,  my  goie  diilis,  tliiuii  M  with  tiie  no/c  of  my 

\  M\  ii\\  the  wrcit^  r>nil  itone^, 

The  riilevo  »|i\n  then  unw  Uliti^j  homes,  hnul  rlose, 

Vrtvrt  my  Mtry  env<;.  nnil  liciit  mi-  violently  ovrc  the  henil  with  whip-Mocks. 

ApMues  are  iM^-r  of  my  chntAnen  of  gnitHem*. 

1  <lo  not  n»k  the  womtiled  pev»on  how  he  feels,  I  myself  Iwcome  the  woumleil 
pettioti."  , 


;  1  t 

n 


t.ntt'itry  ipr  KimnArnnK. 


if)^ 


"I    ...  firp  ttiy'flf  III  I'liiitn  ^linpnl  III«p  ntmilier  itinn, 
Ami  f<'<'l  llip  iliill  iiHiiilrmililPil  |mltt. 

I'll!  iiic  (III"  lti'c|ii'ii  iif  I'liiivlriq  ^llM|||ll(•r  (lirli  cniMnr^  ntiil  kpfp  wnlrli, 
It  Is  1  let  out  ill  llif  iiininiiiK  mill  Ihiu'iI  nt  iii^lil. 

Nut  n  lltiltltippr  wnlkt  hniiilcufT'il  In  jnll  Imt  I  miii  liiiinlriifT"!  In  lili..  nti'l  w  iil|« 
liy  liU  hIiIt  " 

"  Me  jinlno'i  lint  ni  till*  jii'lije  jii'ltJM  '"'t  B«  Hip  sun  rnlllng  nuiiiil  n  lipl|ile»* 

tlllllR." 

or  [\\v  vrrv  wtirsl  he  lind  lli«'  iiifiniU'  tPudeniesH  Idsiiy  :  "  Not 
till  tlic  snu  pxelmlps  yon  «lo  I  ex«  hide  yon." 

In  llii'<  'A^v  of  liircd  wlifii  lionscB  and  Idiids.  nnd  slot  k<«  and 
bond'*,  oMliank  luiinaii  life;  when  ^nld  is  ol  inorf  value  liiau 
lihiud,  tliLsc  words  hIioiiUI  Ik-  irad  liy  ail : 

"  WliPii  (lip  p«nlm  ">iii|»s  iiittpnil  of  tin-  Hliiurr, 
Wlii'ii  the  «nl)'t  (iiciiilicM  iimlciiil  "I   llie  pipurlirr, 
VVIirii  till'  |'iil|iil  ili-criMidt  ;iiiil   unps  ln«lcml  nf  iltp  rnrvpr  llinl  cnrvpil  ili'* 

«li|'|'oiliii(;  ilf"«U, 
\Vhpii  I  inn  Iniii  li  ihf  Imilv  nf  liiinl<n  liy  tii|{lil   Of  liy  (Iny,  nml  when   I  \>y 

liiiitli  iiiv  I'Mitv  liiiik  njjiini, 
Wlii'li  n   iKiivciMity  I'niiim'   cniiviiiii-s    llUc  n    qliiiiiliprliiK  wniTinn  nml   rli  I'l 

cnllvliicc, 
WIlPII    ill'"    lliillli'il    ^nlil    ill    llic    vnillt    ailiiii-s    liltc    tllP    iiinlit  wnlcliiimn'i 

ilniiulilcr. 
Wlipii  wnir-.mlpe  ileeils  lonfe  In  clmiis   n|i|in«lte  ami  tire  my  hifmlly  tniii 

pnnloii!*, 
1  iiilpnil  In  n-m  li  (linn  inv  Imml.nml  iiihUp  ns  mitrli  nf  iliciii  n<i  I  iln  nf  nu-ii 

oiiil  woiiifii  like  yuu." 

VII 

The  popt  is  also  n  iminlpf.  a  si  (il|it(ir  -Iip,  loo,  dpalf?  in  form 
and  color.  Tlic  groat  pool  is  of  nctpssity  a  grrat  artist.  Willi 
0  few  words  lie  cipalos  pi<lnrps,  filliniJ  liis  canvas  with  living  nicii 
and  women — with  those  who  led  and  speak.  Have  yoii  ever 
read  the  nccoiint  of  the  stage-driver's  funeral  ?     I.et  ine  read  it  i 

"Cold  iliwh  of  wnvpK  nt  the  ferry-whnrf,  jmsh  nml  ice  in  the  river,  hnlf  frn/pi» 
niml  in  (Iip  «(ipp(*, 
A  grny  illst  I'lirngi-d  sky  ovcrhen<l,  the  sliort  Inst  ihiylijjht  oi  Dpieinlier, 


II 


l66 


IN  RK   WAIT   WmniAN. 


A  licaisc  niul  s(n);c!i,  the  funeral  of  an  uld   Hioadway  ^lage  driver,  the  cor- 
tege moittly  itrivtMR. 

Steady  ihc  trot  to  the  cemetery,  ihny  rallIrR  the  ilralh  liell, 

Tlie  gale  \^  paH'd,  the  itcw  dug  grave  ii  halted  at,  the  living  ali<;lit,  the 

hcaisp  vuu'lom'n, 
The  colhn  i«  jjumM  out,  lowcr'd  and  settletl,  the  whip  is  laid  on  the  coffin, 

the  cnrlh  is  swil^ly  shovclM  In, 
The  numnd  nlmvc  is  (lailed  with  the  spmles — nitence, 
A  ininnit'   -no  one  moves  or  s|ii'iil<s-   it  is  done, 
lie  Is  tlccenlly  put  away — is  there  any  tiling  more  ? 

lie  «ns  a  good  fellow,  free-montli'd,  qnick-lrtnper'd,  not  bad  looking, 
Keady  with  life  or  death  for  a  friend,  fond  of  women,  gambled,  ale  hearty, 

drnnU  hearty. 
Had  known  what  it  wan  to  he  llnnh,  grew  low-gpirited  toward  the  last,  sick- 

eu'd,  was  helped  hy  a  (.ontiiliution, 
l)ied,  nged  forty-one  years — and  llinl  was  his  funeral." 


i 


l,et  nie  rcail  you  anoilicr  description — one  of  a  woman  : 

"  Itehold  a  woman  ! 
Slie  looks  out  from  her  l^uaker  cap,  her  face  is  clearer  and  more  bcauliful 
than  the  sky. 

She  sils  in  an  armchair  under  the  shaded  porch  of  the  farmhouse, 
The  sun  just  shines  on  her  old  white  head, 

llrr  ample  gown  is  of  ereain  Inieil  linen, 

ller  j^rindsons  raiseil  the  flax,  and  her  granddaughters  spun  it  with  the  dis- 
lalT  and  the  wheel. 


The  melodious  character  of  tl'o  earth. 

The  lini'^h  beyond  which  ji'iilosuphy  cannot  go  and  does  not  wish  to  go, 

The  juRtitied  mother  of  men." 

Would  you  hear  of  an  old  time  sea-fight  ? 

"  Would  you  learn  who  won  by  Ihc  li(;hl  of  Ihc  moon  and  stars  ? 
list  to  the  yarn,  as  my  grandmother's  father  the  sailor  told  it  to  me. 

Our  fuc  was  no  skulk  in  his  ship  I  tell  you  (said  he), 

His  was  the  surly  Kiiglish  pluck,  and  there  is  no  tougher  or  truer,  and  never 
was,  and  never  will  be  ; 


J  ; 


unERTV  rx  T.irFnAvrnK.  267 

Alonj;  the  lower'il  eve  he  cnme  hnrril>ly  rnkiiiK  in. 

We  rlimnl  willi  him.  ihi*  ynnU  rnlnnjjled,  the  cannon  touch'd, 

My  crtptniii  lash'd  fust  with  his  own  hnnii*. 

We  hnil  leceivM  minie  eignloen  pdiiml  shotn  imiler  the  wnter, 
<)n()iir  lower  kmm  (Uik  two  hirge  pieces  had  luirst  at  the  lirst  (ire,  killing  all 
nroutiil  and  hlowini;  up  overhead. 

Fif»htiMR  at  SUM  ilown,  (iniilin(j  at  dnrk, 

Ten  o'cK)ck  at  night,  the  full  nioim  well  up,  our  leaks  on  the  pain,  and  five 

fpct  of  water  rcpurted. 
The  master  at  arms  loosing;  the  prisoners  conlincd  in  the  afterhoUl  to  give 

them  a  chance  for  themselves. 

The  transit  (o  and  from  the  magnziiie  is  now  stnpt  liy  the  sentinels, 
They  see  so  many  strange  faces  they  do  not  know  wliom  to  trust. 

Our  fri(»atc  takes  fire, 

'I'he  other  asks  if  we  demand  (juarter  ? 

If  our  colors  ure  struck  and  the  fighting  done  ? 

Now  I  laugh  content,  for  I  hear  the  voice  of  my  little  captain, 
W>  hiWf  fiol  ftiiick,  he  composedly  cries,  we  have  Just  begun  our  part  of 
the  fighting. 

Only  three  \\\\\\9,  are  in  use, 

One  is  directetl  hy  the  captain  himself  against  the  enemy's  niiiinmast, 
Two  well  serv'd  with  grape  and  canister  silence  his  musketry  and  clear  his 
ilecks. 

The  tops  alone  second  the  fire  of  this  little  battery,  especially  the  main-top, 
They  hold  out  hravely  during  the  whole  of  the  action. 

Not  a  moment's  rease, 

The  leaks  gain  fast  on  the  pumps,  the  fire  eats  toward  the  powder-magazine. 

One  of  the    pumps   has  been   shot  away,  it  is  generally  thought  we  are 
sinking. 


Serene  stands  the  little  captain, 

Me  is  not  hurried,  his  voice  is  neither  high  nor  low. 

His  eyes  give  more  light  to  us  than  our  Ijattle-lanlcrns. 

Toward  twelve  there  in  the  beams  of  the  moon  they  surrender  to  us. 


368 


I\  RK    WALT   WHITMAN. 


StrctchM  and  (till  lies  the  midnight, 

Two  great  hulls  niotionless  on  the  brenst  of  the  darkneM, 

Our  vessel   riddled  and   slowly  sinking,  preparations  to  pais  to  the  one  we 

have  coiKjuvi'd, 
The  captain  on  the  quarter  deck  coldly  giving  his  orders  through  a  counte- 
nance while  as  a  sheet. 
Near  by  the  corpse  of  the  child  that  serv'd  in  the  cabin, 
The  dead   face  of  an  old  salt  with  long  white  hair  and  carefully  curl'd 

whiskers, 
The  flames  spite  of  all  that  can  be  done  flickering  aloft  and  below, 
The  husky  voices  of  the  two  or  three  officers  yet  fit  for  duty, 
Formless  stacks  of  bodies  and  bodies  by  themselves,  dabs  of  ficsh  u|X)n  the 

masts  and  spars, 
Cut  of  cordage,  dangle  of  rigging,  slight  shock  of  the  soothe  of  waves, 
Hlack  and  impassive  guns,  litter  of  jrowder  parcels,  strong  scent, 
A  few  large  stars  overhead,  silent  and  mournful  shining. 
Delicate  snifls  of  sea-breeze,  smells  of  sedgy  grass  and  fields  by  the  shore, 

deaih-mcssagcs  given  in  charge  to  survivors, 
The  hiss  of  the  surgeon's  knife,  the  gnawing  teeth  of  his  saw. 
Wheeze,  cluck,  swash  of  falling  blood,  short  wild  scream,  and  long,  dull, 
tapering  groan." 

•  Some  people  say  that  this  is  not  poetry — that  it  lacks  measure 
and  rhyme. 

Vlll.-WHAT   IS  POETRY? 

The  whole  world  is  engaged  in  the  invisible  commerce  of 
thought.  That  is  to  say,  in  the  exchange  of  thoughts  by  words» 
symbols,  sounds,  colors  and  forms.  The  motions  of  the  silent^ 
invisible  world,  where  feeling  glows  and  thought  flames — that 
contains  all  seeds  of  action — are  made  known  only  by  sounds 
and  colors,  forms,  objects,  relations,  uses  and  qualities — so  that 
the  visible  universe  is  a  dictionary,  an  aggregation  of  symbols, 
by  which  and  through  which  is  carried  on  the  invisible  commerce 
of  thought.  Each  object  is  capable  of  many  meanings,  or  of 
being  used  in  many  ways  to  convey  ideas  or  states  of  feeling  or 
of  facts  that  take  place  in  the  world  of  the  brain. 
'  The  greatest  poet  is  the  one  wi.o  selects  the  best,  the  most 
appropriate  symbols  to  convey  the  best,  the  highest,  the  sub- 
limest  thoughts.     Each  man  occupies  a  world  of  his  oVn.     He 


-  ;j 


LIBERTY  IN  LITERATURE. 


369 


is  the  only  citizen  of  his  world.  He  is  subject  and  sovereign, 
and  the  best  he  <:an  do  is  to  K>ve  the  facts  concerning  the  world 
in  winch  he  lives  to  the  citizens  of  other  worlds.  No  two  of 
these  worlds  are  alike.  They  are  of  all  kinds,  from  the  flat, 
barren,  and  uninteresting — from  the  small  and  shrivelled  and 
worthless — to  tliuse  whose  rivers  and  mountains  and  seas  and 
constellations  belittle  an<l  clicapen  the  visible  world.  The  in- 
habitants of  these  marvellous  worlds  have  been  the  singers  of 
songs,  utterers  of  great  speecii — the  creators  of  art. 

And  here  lies  the  difference  between  creators  and  imitators : 
the  creator  tells  what  passes  in  his  own  world — the  imitator  does 
not.  The  imitator  abdicates,  and  by  the  fact  of  imitation  falls 
upon  his  knees.  He  is  like  one  who,  hearing  a  traveller  talk, 
pretends  to  others  that  he  has  travelled. 

In  nearly  all  lands,  the  poet  has  been  privileged — for  the  sake 
of  beauty,  they  have  allowed  him  to  speak,  and  for  that  reason 
he  has  told  the  story  of  the  oppressed,  and  has  excited  the  in- 
dignation of  honest  men  and  even  the  pity  of  tyrants.  He, 
rbove  all  others,  has  added  to  the  intellectual  beauty  of  the 
world.  He  has  been  the  true  creator  of  language,  and  has  left 
his  impress  on  mankind. 

What  I  have  said  is  not  only  true  of  poetry — it  is  true  of  all 
speech.  All  are  compelled  to  use  the  visible  world  as  a  diction- 
ary. Words  have  been  invented  and  are  being  invented — for 
the  reason  that  new  powers  are  found  in  the  old  symbols,  new 
qualities,  relations,  uses,  and  meanings.  The  growth  of  language 
is  necessary  on  account  of  the  development  of  the  human  mind. 
The  savage  needs  but  few  symbols — the  civilizeil  many — the  poet 
most  of  all. 

The  old  idea  was,  however,  that  the  poet  must  be  a  rhymer. 
Before  printing  was  known,  it  was  said  :  the  rhyme  assists  the 
memory.     That  excuse  no  longer  exists. 

Is  rhyme  a  necessary  part  of  poetry  ?  In  my  judgment,  rhyme 
is  a  hindrance  to  expression.  The  rhymer  is  compelled  to  wander 
from  his  subject — to  say  more  or  less  than  he  means — to  introduce 
irrelevant  matter  that  interferes  continually  with  the  dramatic 
action  and  is  a  perpetual  obstruction  to  sincere  utterance. 


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Sdences 

Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)  872-4503 


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iV 


A 


27° 


IN  RE   WALT   WHITMAN. 


All  poems,  of  necessity,  must  be  short.  The  highly  and  purely 
poetic  is  the  sudden  bursting  into  blossom  of  a  great  and  tender 
thought.  The  planting  of  the  seed,  the  growth,  the  bud  and 
flower  must  be  rapid.  The  spring  must  be  quick  and  warm — the 
soil  perfect,  the  sunshine  and  rain  enough — everything  should 
tend  to  hasten,  nothing  to  delay.  In  poetry,  as  in  wit,  the  crys- 
tallization must  be  sudden. 

The  greatest  poems  are  rhythmical.  While  rhyme  is  a  hin- 
drance, rhythm  seems  to  be  the  comrade  of  the  poetic.  Rhythm 
has  a  natural  foundation.  Under  emotion,  the  blood  rises  and 
falls,  the  muscles  contract  and  relax,  and  this  action  of  the  blood 
is  as  rhythmical  as  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  sea.  In  the  highest 
form  of  expression,  the  thought  should  be  in  harmony  with  this 
natural  ebb  and  flow. 

The  highest  poetic  truth  is  expressed  in  rhythmical  form.  I 
have  sometimes  thought  that  an  idea  selects  its  own  words,  chooses 
its  own  garments,  and  that  when  the  thouglit  has  possession,  ab- 
solutely, of  the  speaker  or  writer,  he  unconsciously  allows  the 
thought  to  clothe  itself. 

The  great  poetry  of  the  world  keeps  time  with  the  winds  and 
the  waves. 

I  do  not  mean  by  rhythm  a  recurring  accent  at  accurately 
measured  intervals.  Perfect  time  is  the  death  of  music.  There 
should  always  be  room  fur  eager  haste  and  delicious  delay,  and 
whatever  change  there  may  be  in  the  rhythm  or  time,  the  action 
itself  should  suggest  perfect  freedom. 

A  word  more  about  rhythm.  I  believe  that  certain  feelings 
and  passions — joy,  grief,  emulation,  revenge — produce  certain 
molecular  movements  in  the  brain — that  every  thought  is  accom- 
panied by  certain  physical  phenomena.  Now  it  may  be  that 
certain  sounds,  colors,  and  forms  produce  the  same  molecular 
action  in  the  brain  that  accompanies  certain  feelings,  and  that 
these  sounds,  colors,  and  forms  produce  first,  the  molecular 
movements  and  these  in  their  turn  reproduce  the  feelings,  emo- 
tions and  states  of  mind  capable  of  producing  the  same  or  like 
molecular  movements.  So  that  what  we  call  heroic  music,  pro- 
duces the  same  molecular  action  in  the  brain — the  same  physical 


LIBERTY  IN  LITERATURE. 


2Tt 


and  purely 

and  tender 

>e  bud  and 

warm — the 

iiiig  should 

it,  the  crys- 

e  is  a  hin- 
Rhythm 
rises  and 
the  blood 

he  highest 
with  this 

il  form.  I 
ds,  chooses 
ession,  ab- 
allows  the 

winds  and 

accurately 
c.  There 
delay,  and 
the  action 

in  feelings 

=e  certain 
is  accom- 

y  be  that 

molecular 

,  and  that 

molecular 

igs,  emo- 

le  or  like 

Jsic,  pro- 
physical 


changes — that  are  produced  by  the  real  feeling  of  heroism ;  that 
the  sounds  we  call  plaintive  produce  the  same  molecular  move- 
ment in  the  brain  that  grief,  or  the  twilight  of  grief,  actually 
produces.  There  may  be  a  rhythmical  molecular  movement 
belonging  to  each  state  of  mind,  that  accompanies  each  thought 
or  passion,  and  it  may  be  that  music,  or  painting,  or  sculpture, 
produces  the  same  state  of  mind  or  feeling  that  produces  the 
music  or  painting  or  sculpture,  by  producing  the  same  molecular 
movements. 

All  arts  are  born  of  the  same  spirit,  and  express  like  thoughts 
in  different  ways — that  is  to  say,  they  produce  like  states  of  mind 
and  feeling.  The  sculptor,  the  painter,  the  composer,  the  poet, 
the  orator,  work  to  the  same  end,  with  different  materials.  The 
painter  expresses  through  form  and  color  and  relation ;  the 
sculptor  through  form  and  relation.  The  poet  also  paints  and 
chisels — his  words  give  form,  relation,  and  color.  His  statues 
and  his  paintings  do  not  crumble,  neither  do  they  fade,  nor  will 
they  as  long  as  language  endures.  The  composer  touches  the 
passions,  produces  the  very  states  of  feeling  produced  by  the 
painter  and  sculptor,  the  poet  and  orator.  In  all  these  there 
must  be  rhythm — that  is  to  say,  proportion — that  is  to  say,  har- 
mony, melody. 

So  that  the  greatest  poet  is  the  one  who  idealizes  the  common, 
who  gives  new  meanings  to  old  symbols,  who  transfigures  the 
ordinary  things  of  life.  He  mubt  deal  with  the  hopes  and  fears, 
and  with  the  experiences  ot  tiie  people. 

The  poetic  is  not  the  exceptional.  A  perfect  poem  is  like  a 
perfect  day.  It  has  the  undefinable  charm  of  naturalness  and 
ease.  It  must  not  appear  to  be  the  result  of  great  labor.  We 
feel,  in  spite  of  ourselves,  that  man  does  best  that  which  he  does 
easiest. 

The  great  poet  is  the  instrumentality,  not  always  of  his  time, 
but  of  the  best  of  his  time,  and  he  must  be  in  unison  and  accord 
with  the  ideals  of  his  race.  The  sublimer  he  is,  the  simpler  he 
is.  The  thoughts  of  the  people  must  be  clad  in  the  garments  of 
feeling — the  words  must  be  known,  apt,  familiar.  The  height, 
must  be  in  the  thought,  in  the  sympathy. 


~,jat^mmmtalmtu0lltttttttlltmtit 


ttitmmtimtmmumim 


473 


IN  RK   WAI.T   WniTMAN. 


I 


In  tiie  olilcn  time  tlicy  used  to  have  May-tJay  parties,  and  the 
jtrottiost  child  was  crowned  Queen  of  May.  Imagine  an  old 
l)la<  ksmith  and  his  wile  looking  at  their  little  dangiUer  <  lad  in 
white  and  crowned  witii  roses.  'I'hey  woiikl  wonder  while  they 
looked  at  her,  how  they  ever  came  to  have  so  bcantifrl  a  child. 
It  is  thus  that  the  poet  clothes  the  intellectual  children  or  ideals 
of  I  lie  people.  They  n\nst  \\o\.  hegommed  and  garlanded  heyond 
the  recognition  of  their  parents.  Out  irom  all  the  llowers  and 
beauty  must  look  the  eyes  of  the  child  they  know. 

We  have  grown  tired  of  gods  and  goddesses  in  art.  Milton's 
heavenly  militia  excites  our  laughter.  Light  houses  have  driven 
sirens  from  the  dangerous  coasts.  We  have  fomid  that  we  do  not 
depend  on  the  imagination  for  wonders — there  are  millions  of 
miracles  under  our  feet. 

Nothing  can  be  more  marvelloiis  than  the  common  and 
everyday  facts  of  life.  The  phantoms  have  been  cast  aside. 
Men  anil  women  are  enough  for  men  and  women.  In  their 
lives  is  all  the  tragedy  and  all  the  comedy  that  they  can  compre- 
hend. 

The  painter  no  longer  crowds  his  canv.ns  with  the  winged  and 
impossible — he  paints  life  as  he  sees  it,  jieople  as  he  knows  them, 
and  in  whom  he  is  interested.  "Tiie  Angehis,"  the  perfection 
of  pathos,  is  nothing  but  two  ])easants  bending  ihcir  heads  in 
thankfulness  as  they  hear  the  solemn  somul  of  the  distant  bell — 
two  peasants,  who  have  nothing  to  be  thankful  for — nothing  but 
Aveariness  and  want,  nothing  but  the  crusts  that  they  soften  with 
their  tears — notliing.  And  yet  as  you  look  at  that  jiicture  you 
feel  that  they  have  something  besides  to  be  thankful  for — that 
they  have  life,  love,  and  hope — and  so  the  distant  bell  makes 
music  in  their  simple  hearts. 

IX. 

The  attitude  of  Whitman  toward  religion  has  not  been  under- 
stood. Towards  all  forms  of  worship,  towards  all  creeds,  he  has 
maintained  the  attitude  of  absolute  fairness.  He  does  not  believe 
that  Nature  has  given  her  last  message  to  man.  He  does  not 
believe  that  all  has  been  ascertained.     He  denies  that  any  sect 


llliHRTY  IN  LlTKRATUliK. 


273 


es,  and  the 
nc  ail  old 
lU-r  (lad  in 
wliilo  ihey 
rl  a  child, 
n  or  ideals 
I'd  beyond 
lowers  and 

Milton's 

avc  driven 

wo  do  not 

iiillions  of 

iinon   and 

ast  aside. 

In   their 

II  coniprc- 

Inged  and 
)ws  them, 
|)orfection 
heads  in 
mt  bell— 
thing  but 
•ften  with 
rture  you 
for — that 
;11  makes 


;n  imder- 
Is,  he  has 
)t  believe 
does  not 
any  sect 


bas  written  down  the  entire  truth.     He  uclieves  in  progress,  and, 
so  believing,  he  says  : 

"  We  consider  MMcs  n.iul  icli^jidus  divine — I  do  not  say  they  nre  not  divine, 
I  say  they  Imve  ail  ;;ro\vn  out  of  yoii,  and  may  j;ro\v  out  of  you  still. 
It  is  not  they  who  give  the  life,  it  is  you  whu  give  the  life." 

*'  His  [the  poet's]  thou(;lits  arc  tin-  hymns  nf  the  praise  of  things, 
In  the  dispute  on  (lod  and  elernily  he  is  silent." 

"  Have  you  thought  there  coulil  l>c  Imt  a  single  supreme  ? 
There  can  be  any  nund)ei  of  sujjreuies — one  does  not  countervail  another 
any  more  than  one  eyesight  countervails  another." 

Upon  the  great  questions,  as  to  the  great  problems,  he  feels 
only  the  serenity  of  a  great  and  well-poised  soul. 

"  No  array  of  teims  can  say  how  much   I  am  at  peace  al)out  (iod  and  aliout 
death. 
I  hear  and  behold  (Jod  in  every  object,  yet  understand  Clod  not  in  the  least, 
Nor  do  I  understand  who  tiiere  can  be  more  wonilcrful  than  myself." 

■"  In  the  faces  of  men  and  women  I  sec  (Iod,  and  in  my  own  face  in  the  glass, 
I  find  letters  from  Goil  dropt  in  the  .street,  and  every  one  is  sign'd  by  (iod's 
name." 

The  whole  visible  world  is  regarded  by  him  as  a  revelation, 
and  so  is  the  invisible  world,  and  with  this  feeling  he  writes: 

"Not  objecting  lo  special  revelations,  considering  a  curl  of  smoke  or  a  hair 
on  the  back  of  my  hand  just  as  curious  as  any  revelation." 

The  creeds  do  not  satisfy,  the  old  mythologies  are  not  enough  ; 
they  are  too  narrow  at  best,  giving  only  hints  and  suggestions; 
and  feeling  this  lack  in  that  which  has  been  written  and  preachfd. 
Whitman  says : 

"  Magnifying  and  applying  come  I, 
Outbidding  at  the  start  the  old  cautious  hucksters, 
Taking  myself  the  exact  dimensions  of  Jehovah, 
Lithographing  Kronos,  Zeus  his  son,  and  Hercules  his  grandson, 
Buying  drafts  of  Osiris,  Isis,  Belus,  lirahma,  lUiddha, 
In  my  portfolio  placing  Manito  loose,  Allah  on  a  leaf,  the  crucifix  engraved, 
l8 


J 


lliWlKl]  lHIIillli'll 


r^ 


I  i 


874 


/,v  /./■;  w.u.r  wiimiAX. 


With  Odin  niul  llic  liiik'nus-fiu'eil  Mfxitli  and  cvciy  i'l>'l  mid  imago, 
Tnkiiij;  thcni  all  for  what  they  are  woiili    mikI  iml  a  cen(  iiicire." 

Whitman  keeps  open  lionse.  He  is  intellectually  hospitable. 
He  extends  his  hand  to  a  new  idea.  1  le  (jtus  not  accept  a  creed 
because  it  is  wrinkled  and  old  and  has  a  long  uhite  beard.  He 
knows  that  hypoc  risy  has  a  venerable  look,  and  thai  it  relies  on 
looks  and  niasks — on  slnpidity — and  fear.  Neither  iUk-h  he  re- 
ject or  accept  the  new  because  it  is  iicw.  He  wants  the  truth, 
and  so  he  welcomes  all  until  he  knows  just  who  and  what  they  are. 

X.-PHILOSOPHY. 

Walt  Whitman  is  a  philosopher. 

The  more  a  man  has  thought,  the  niore  he  has  studied,  the 
more  he  has  travelled  intellectually,  the  less  certain  he  is.  Only 
the  very  ignorant  are  perfect Iv  satisfied  that  thev  know.  To  the 
common  man  the  great  problems  are  easy.  He  has  no  trouble 
in  accounting  for  the  universe.  He  tan  tell  yon  the  origin  and 
destiny  of  man  and  the  why  ami  the  wherefore  of  things.  As  a 
rule,  he  is  a  believer  in  spec  iai  providence,  and  is  egotistic 
enough  to  suppose  that  everytliing  that  happens  in  the  universe 
happens  in  reference  to  him. 

A  colony  of  red  ants  lived  at  the  foot  of  the  .Mps.  It  hap- 
pened one  day  that  an  avalanclie  destroyed  the  hill  ;  and  one  of 
the  ants  was  heard  to  remark:  "  Who  could  have  taken  so  much 
trouble  to  cleslroy  our  home  ?  " 

Walt  Whitman  walked  by  the  side  of  the  sea  "  where  the 
fierce  old  mother  endlessly  cries  for  her  castaways,"  and  en- 
deavored to  think  out,  to  fathom  the  mystery  of  being ;  and  he 
said  : 

"I  too  Init  signify  .it  the  utmost  n  lillle  wasli'd  up  drift, 
A  few  sands  and  dead  leaves  to  (;adKT. 
Gather,  and  merge  myself  as  part  of  the  sands  and  drift." 

"  Aware  now  that  amid  all  that  blab  whose  echoes  recoil  upon  me  T  have  not 
otice  had  the  least  idea  who  or  what  I  am, 
But  that  before  all  my  arrogant  poems  the  real  Me  stands  yet  untouch'd, 
untold,  altogether  unieach'd. 


I.IIIKUTY  IS   l.lTI./i.iTl'Iih'. 


K5 


hos|)il;\I)l(\ 
(  Cpl  a  (  loi'il 
IkmhI.  Mo 
it  relics  on 
(loo-i  iio  rc- 
is  the  tnitli, 
Kit  I  hey  ure. 


sttidifd,  the 
c  is.  Duly 
)\v.  To  the 
3  no  trouble 
'  origin  and 
ings.  As  a 
is  egotistic 
the  universe 

)s.  It  hap- 
and  one  of 
en  so  much 

where  the 

"  and  en- 

ig ;  and  he 


ne  I  have  not 
ct  untouch'd, 


\Viiliiliiuvii  fur,  iiKnU'ii^j  iiu-  willi  inotkcoiinriilulatory  hI^iih  mid  l»(W*, 
Willi  (Kills  111   (lislMiil  iiiTiiiial  liiii^jliItT  lit  every  wonl  I  li;ivc  wrilli  ii, 
I'oilitili^  ill  sili'iicc  Ik  |I|("<<-  <)<iii^'<,  iiikI  then  Id  ihc  Hnnil  liciicilli. 
I  pcrccivi-  I   have  iinl  really  iiiidcrsl-HMl  nny  tliiiij;,  nut  a  single  olijeel,  ami 
that  III!  man  ever  can." 

There  is  in  our  language  no  jirofounder  poem  than  the  one- 
entitled  "  Sea  Drift." 

The  effort  to  iin<l  the  origin  has  ever  been,  and  will  forever  be, 
fruitless.  Ihose  who  endeavor  to  find  the  secret  of  life  reseniblc 
a  man  looking  in  the  mirror,  who  thinks  that  if  he  only  could 
be  (jiiick  «  nough  he  could  gras|)  the  image  that  he  sees  bciiiiid 
the  glass. 

The  latest  wurd  of  this  poet  tiju)!!  this  subject  is  as  follows  : 

"  'i'o  me  this  life  with  all  its  realities  ami  functions  is  finally  a 
mystery,  the  real  something  yet  to  be  evolved,  and  the  stamp 
ami  shape  and  life  here  somehow  giving  an  important,  perhaps 
the  main,  outline  to  something  lurther.  Somehow  this  hangs. 
over  everything  else,  antl  stands  behind  it,  is  inside  of  all  facts, 
and  the  concrete  and  material,  and  the  worldly  affairs  of  life  and 
sense.  That  is  the;  purpurt  and  meaning  bchinil  all  the  other 
meanings  of  '  Leaves  of  Orass.'  " 

As  a  matter  of  fa<t,  tlie  (piestions  of  origin  and  destiny  are 
beyond  the  grasp  of  the  human  mind.  We  <an  see  a  certain 
distance  ;  beyond  that,  everything  is  indistinct  ;  and  beyond  the 
indistinct  is  the  imseen.  In  the  jirescncc  of  these  mysteries — 
and  everything  is  a  mystery  so  far  as  origin,  destiny,  and  nature 
arc  concerned — the  intelligent,  honest  man  is  comi)elled  to  say, 
"  I  do  not  know." 

In  the  great  midnight  a  few  truths  like  stars  shine  on  forever — 
and  from  the  brain  of  man  come  a  few  struggling  gleams  of  light 
— a  few  momentary  sparks. 

Some  have  contended  that  everything  is  spirit  ;  others  that 
everything  is  matter  ;  and  again,  others  have  maintained  that  a 
part  is  matter  anil  a  part  is  spirit  ;  some  that  sjiirit  was  first  and 
matter  after ;  others  that  matter  was  first  and  spirit  after;  and 
others  that  matter  and  spirit  have  always  existed  together. 

But  none  of  these  people  can  by  any  possibility  tell  what  mat- 


I   ^ 


}\' 


276 


IN  RE   WALT   WHITMAN. 


ter  is,  or  what  spirit  is,  or  what  the  difference  is  between  spirit 
and  matter. 

Tlie  materiai...u  look  upon  the  spiritualists  as  substantially 
crazy;  and  the  spiritualists  regard  the  materialists  as  low  and 
gro'elling.  These  spiritualistic  jjeople  hold  matter  in  contempt; 
but,  after  all,  matter  is  quite  a  mystery.  You  take  in  your  h„nd 
a  little  earth — a  little  dust.  Do  you  know  'vhat  it  is?  In  this 
dust  you  put  a  seed  ;  the  rain  falls  upon  it ;  ;he  light  strikes  it ; 
the  seed  grows  ;  it  bursts  into  blossom  ;  it  producs  fruit. 

What  is  this  dust — this  womb  ?  Do  you  understand  it?  Is 
there  anything  in  the  wide  universe  more  wonderful  than  this? 

Take  a  grain  of  sand,  reduce  it  to  powder,  take  the  smallest 
possible  particle,  look  at  it  with  a  microscope,  contemplate  its 
every  part  for  days,  and  it  remains  the  citadel  of  a  secret — an 
impregnable  fortress.  Bring  all  the  theologians,  philosophers, 
and  scientists  in  serried  ranks  against  it ;  let  them  attack  on 
every  side  with  all  the  arts  and  aims  of  thought  and  force.  The 
citadel  does  not  fiiU.  Over  the  battlements  floats  the  flag,  and 
the  victorious  secret  smiles  at  the  baflled  hosts. 

Walt  Whitman  did  not  and  does  not  imagine  that  he  has 
reached  the  limit — the  end  of  the  road  travelled  by  the  human 
race.  He  knows  that  every  victory  over  nature  is  but  the  prepa- 
ration for  another  battle.  This  truth  was  in  his  mind  when  he 
said:  "Understand  me  well ;  it  is  provided  in  the  essence  of 
things,  that  from  any  fruition  of  success,  no  matter  what,  shall 
come  forth  something  to  make  a  greater  struggle  necessary." 

This  is  the  generalization  of  all  history. 

XI.— THE  TWO   POEMS. 

There  are  two  of  these  poems  to  which  I  have  time  to  call 
special  attention.  The  first  is  entitled,  "  A  V/ord  Out  of  the 
Sea." 

The  boy,  coming  out  of  the  rocked  cradle,  wandering  over  the 
sands  and  fields,  up  from  the  mystic  play  of  shadows,  out  of  the 
patches  of  briers  and  blackberries — from  the  memories  of  birds — 
from  the  thousand  responses  of  his  heart — goes  back  to  Ihe  sea 
and  his  childhood,  and  sings  a  reminiscence. 


LJIIKliTY  IN  LITER ATURK. 


277 


:ween  spirit 

ubstantially 
as  low  and 
I  contempt ; 
I  your  h,.nd 
s?  In  this 
t  strikes  it ; 
"ruit. 

and  it?  Is 
than  this? 
he  smallest 
emplate  its 
I  secret — an 
hilosophers, 
1  attack  on 
force.  The 
he  flag,  and 

that  he  has 
the  human 
t  the  prepa- 
id when  he 
essence  of 
what,  shall 
issary." 


ime  to  call 
Out  of  the 

ng  over  the 
out  of  the 
of  birds — 
to  the  sea 


Two  guests  from  Alabama — two  birds — build  their  nest,  and 
there  were  four  light  green  eggs,  spotted  with  brown,  and  the 
two  birds  ^ang  for  joy  : 

"  Shine  I  shine  !  shine  I 
Pour  ilown  your  wnrmth,  grept  sun  I 
While  we  basic,  we  two  together." 

"  Two  together ! 
Winds  l)low  south,  or  winds  i)low  north, 
Day  come  wiiite,  or  night  come  lilack, 
Home,  or  rivers  and  mountains  from  home, 
Singing  all  time,  minding  no  lime. 
While  we  two  keep  together." 

'i.n  a  little  while  one  of  the  birds  is  missed  and  never  appeared 
again,  and  all  through  the  sumiper  tlie  mate,  the  solitary  guest, 
was  singing  of  the  lost : 

"  Wow  !  blow  \   blow  ! 
Blow  up  sea-winds  along  Paumanok's  shore  ; 
I  wait  and  I  wait  till  you  blow  my  mate  to  me." 

And  the  boy  that  night,  blending  himself  witli  the  shadows, 
with  bare  feet,  went  down  to  the  sea,  where  the  wliite  arms  out 
in  the  breakers  were  tirelessly  tossing;  listening  to  the  songs  and 
translating  the  notes. 

And  the  singing  bird  called  loud  and  high  for  the  mate,  won- 
dering what  the  dusky  spot  was  in  the  brown  and  yellow,  seeing 
the  mate  whichever  way  he  looked,  piercing  the  woods  and  the 
earth  with  his  song,  hoping  that  the  mate  mi^'ht  hear  his  cry ; 
stopping  that  he  might  not  lose  her  answer;  waiting  and  then 
crying  again  :  "  Here  I  am  !  And  this  gentle  call  is  for  you. 
Do  not  be  deceived  by  the  whistle  of  the  winds ;  those  are  the 
shadows  ;  "  and  at  last  crying  : 

"  O  past  I  O  happy  life  !  O  songs  of  joy ! 
In  the  air,  in  the  woods,  over  fields. 
Loved  !  loved  !  loved  !  loved  !  loved  ! 
But  n:y  mate  no  more,  no  more  with  me ! 
We  two  together  no  more." 


1 

( 


Ml 


n 


978  TX  RE  WALT  WITITMAX. 

And  tlien  the  boy,  untlcrstandiiiR  the  song  that  had  awakened 
in  his  breast  a  tliousand  songs  clearer  and  louder  and  more  sor- 
rowful tlian  the  bird's,  knowing  that  the  cry  of  unsatisfied  love 
would  never  again  be  absent  from  iiim  ;  thinking  then  of  the 
destiny  of  all,  and  asking  of  the  sea  the  final  word,  and  the  sea 
answering,  delaying  not  and  hurrying  not,  spoke  the  low  de- 
lit  ions  word  "  Death  !  "  ever  "  Death  !  " 

The  next  poem,  one  that  will  live  as  long  as  our  language,  en- 
titled, '•  When  Lilacs  Last  in  the  Dooryard  Bloom'd,"  is  on  the 
death  of  Lincoln, 

"  The  sweetest,  wisest  soul  of  all  my  days  and  lands." 

One  wiio  reads  this  will  never  forget  the  odor  of  the  lilac, 
the  lustrous  western  star  and  the  gray-biown  bird  singing  in  the 
pines  and  cedars. 

In  this  poem  the  dramatic  unities  are  perfectly  preserved,  the 
atmosphere  and  climate  in  harmony  witli  every  event. 

Never  will  he  forget  the  solemn  journey  of  the  coffin  through 
day  and  night,  with  the  great  cloud  darkening  the  land,  nor  the 
pomp  of  inlooped  fl;igs,  the  jirocessions  long  and  winding,  the 
flambeaus  at  night,  the  torclies'  flames,  the  silent  sea  of  faces, 
the  uniiared  heads,  the  thousand  voices  rising  strong  and  solemn, 
the  dirges,  the  shuddering  organs,  the  tolling  bells — and  the 
sprig  of  lilac. 

And  then  for  a  moment  they  will  hear  the  gray-brown  bird 
singing  in  the  cedars,  bashful  and  tender,  while  the  lustrous  star 
lingers  in  the  West,  and  they  will  remember  the  pictures  hung 
on  the  chamber  walls  to  adorn  the  burial  house — jjictures  of 
spring  and  farms  and  homes,  and  the  gray  smoke  lucid  and 
bright,  and  the  floods  of  yellow  gold — of  the  gorgeous  indolent 
sinking  sun — the  sweet  herbage  under  foot — the  green  leaves  of 
the  trees  prolific — the  breast  of  the  river  with  the  wind-dapple 
here  and  there — and  the  varied  and  ample  land — and  the  most 
excellent  sun  so  calm  and  haughty — the  violet  and  purple  morn 
with  just-'elt  breezes — the  gentle  soft-born  measureless  light — 
the  miracle  spreading,  bathing  all — the  fulfilled  noon — the  com- 
ing eve  delicious  and  the  welcome  night  and  the  stars. 


LIUKRTY  IS  I.lTKItATUHE. 


279 


And  then  again  they  will  hoar  the  song  of  the  gray-brown  bird 
in  the  limitless  dib.k  amid  the  cedars  and  pines.  Again  they 
will  remember  the  star,  and  again  the  odor  of  the  lilac. 

lint  most  of  all,  the  song  of  the  bird  translated  and  becoming 
the  chant  for  death  : 

"Come  lovely  and  sucitliiiifj  death, 
Undulate  ruund  the  world,  serenely  arriving;,  arriving, 
In  the  (lay,  in  the  ni^ht,  to  all,  to  each. 
Sooner  or  later  delicate  death. 

I'rais'd  he  the  fathomless  universe, 

For  life  and  joy,  and  for  objects  and  knowledj»e  curious. 
And  for  love,  sweet  love — l)Ut  jiraise  !  jiraise  I  praise  ! 
For  the  gure-enwinding  arms  of  cool  enfolding  death. 

Dark  mother  always  gliding  near  with  soft  feet. 

Have  none  chanted  for  thee  a  chant  of  fullest  welcome? 

Then  I  chant  it  for  thee,  I  glorify  lliee  ahove  all, 

I  bring  thee  a  ^ong  that  when  thou  must  indeed  come,  come  unfalteringly. 

Ai)i>roach  strong  deliveress, 

When  it  is  so,  when  thou  hast  taken  them  I  joyously  sing  the  dead, 

Lost  in  the  loving  floating  ocean  of  thee. 

Laved  in  the  flood  of  thy  hliss  O  death. 

From  me  to  thee  glad  serenades, 

Dances  for  thee  I  pro[)ose  saluting  thee,  adornments  and  feastings  for  thee, 
And  the  sij;hts  of  the  open  landscape  and  the  high-spread  sky  are  fitting, 
And  life  and  the  fields,  and  the  huge  and  thoughtful  night. 

The  night  in  silence  unci  many  a  star. 

The  ocean  shore  and  the  usky  whispering  wave  whose  voice  I  know^ 

And  the  soul  turning  to  t!  \st  and  well-veil'd  death, 

And  the  body  gratefully  close  to  thee. 

Over  the  tree-to])s  I  float  thet         >ng, 

Over  the  rising  and  sinking  waves,  over  the  myriad  fields  and  the  prairies 

wide. 
Over  the  dense-pack'd  cities  all  and  the  teeming  wharves  and  ways, 
I  float  this  carol  with  joy,  with  joy  to  thee  ()  death." 

This  poem,  in  memory  of"  the  sweetest,  wisest  soul  of  all  our 


w 

I 


i 


J 


•So 


/.V  UN   WAIT   WHITMAy. 


(I<iy<<  inul   lauds,"   Im    whimc  mVi'  lilai    itiid  Miir  iiiul  bini  iMi- 
Iwintil,  will  liiNl  iw  long  n«  titr  iiu'imny  ol   l.imnln. 

XII.     (Mh    M,\% 
Willi  Wliiliuim  is  not  «»iilv  llu-  ptKi  ol  <  lultlliood,  ol  yo»ill\.  of 
ntniilioiKl,  l>iii.  .ilntM-    ill.  ol   oi«l  iini'.      llrliiiH  not   l>cn»  hoiiumI 

ll.il 
I.  TV  li.is  niiiilc  liim  ifvinmliil  or  aiion-iiil.      Now  sUliiig  liy  llic 
liii'suli",  in  llic  wiiiU'i  ol  liU'. 


l»y  HlaiiiliM  or  prlnluil  lty  |ticjiulin«  ;    iitiilin   raliimiiv  noi 


"  llln  |i<iuiiil  lu'iul  Hiill  licntiiij;  111  lif«  I'lciui," 

lit«  is  just  as  bravo  and  « aim  and  kind  as  in  his  manhood'?* 
pitMidi'si  davs,  wlu'H  rosi's  bUissomrd  in  Ins  t  luiks.  Hi-  has 
i.ikiii  lilr's  M'viMi  slops.  Now,  us  tlu'  yami'sior  uiij^hl  say,  "  on 
vilvri,"  lit'  is  rnjovinn  "old  age  cx|iainlrd,  broad,  with  (ho 
liaiij;hlv  bu.ullh  ollho  univorso  ;  old  af;<>,  Mowing  Irrc,  with  iho 
dilu  ions  iuMi  bv  In-idoin  of  diMlh  j  old  .i^c,  supribly  lising. 
Will  omiii).;  llu'  ini'lV.iblf  .if.;f;n'f;alion  of  dying  days." 

Ilo  is  laking  Ihc  "  lol'licst  look  at  last,"  ami  boliHi'  ho  gooH  lie 
tittors  llmnks : 

"  I'oi  hriillli.  ll\o  luiililiU-  --ini.  llu'  iin|>nlp,>lili'  nir     Tt  life,  iiu'ii'  Iifi\ 
I'Ki  jMi'iioim  ever  linm'iitin  uifinorio^,  (ol  voii  inv  mnilni  ilii\i  — vmi,  lnlhcr 

— yui,  l<r<<llin!i,  siMcis.  Iiicnilii,) 
1''<<i  nil  niv  tlrtv--   nut  ilinsi'  ol  yrwiv  uli'iic  -ilii<  ilny*  nf  wnr  llic  sninc, 
l''i>r  ^PDllc  woiiIh,  iMirsic»,  ^i{\n  froin  l'nriM|»n  liiiiiN, 


1'\>i  slulii'i,  winr  iniil  humI — for 


swi'iM  n|i|>r<'»Miini> 


(\'y>»  iliHiiuil.   dim    \n\kiiown — iir    yoiinj;    or    ulil     couiillc^s,   unspccilicil, 

irmlrni  bclovM, 
\Vr  ttrvcr  lucl,  ni\i|  lu-'ci  sl):(ll  lurol  -   nnil  yrt  our  soiiU  rmlirrtfo,  lon^,  iIohp 

nnil  lon^  ;) 
V'or  hoinu*,  jjiiMips,  lovr,  iK-oiK,  woiils,  luxik^ — for  oolors,  fotnin. 
I'or  i\]\  llu>  liiuvc  slioii);  men  -lU'volcil,  liatilv  turn      who've  (oi  \mu  I  spiunn 

ill  frceiloni's  help,  nil  ycms,  nil  Iniiils, 
I'or  Imivor,  Mron^jer,  niorr  ilcvoloil  men — (a  speeini  Ininel  ere  1  i;o,  lo  life's 

w.'Ar's  ehosen  one*, 
The  e;»mioi»eri-s  ol"  si>nj;  nnd   tl\oii(;ht  -  the   ^renl  nrtillerisis — Ihe  loremosl 

lender'*,  cnptnins  of  the  soul)." 

It  is  a  groat  thing  to  proaoh  philosophy — far  greater  to  live  it. 


inni;iY  IS  i.miiMVith:. 


aflt 


TIh'  liinlusl  |iliiltiM)|)liy  in  rrplH  iIk-  im-vilulilc  with  n  muilr,  iind 
HHTls  It  iw  llioiijili  II  wi-rr  tlcsiiid. 

Til  Ik-  Hulislinl :    This  is  wt.ilili     siini-sf*. 

'I'lio  real  |iliilus<i|ili(  i  knows  th.il  cvnylliiiijj  Iiiih  liii|i|)i<n('(t    ' 
(iiiiltl  li.ivf  lM|)|i«'iinl  — « i»iiM*t|iU'nlly  lie  at  i  «'plH.    He  is  ^Iml  iliai 
lie  liiiH  livnl     nl.iil  ih.il  ho  linn  liuil  his  iiioiiicnl  on  ilic  hI.iuc.    In 
thiNspiiK  WliUiiiaii  lias  a<  t  i-ptftl  lllv. 


"  I  <linll  (,'><  loiili, 

i  »llilll  IlilMM-o-  llii-  Slilli'^  iiwliili'.  Iml    I  rililtliil  Irll  wlilllirr  nr  linw  li 
|Viliii|w  •••■Ml  mmw  iluy  iir  iiiulK  while  I  inn  HiiiKin^  niy  vnl.i-  will  NinMinly 


"«. 


ii'ime. 


(>  l><«<K.  ( I  rli.iiil*  I  inURt  nil  tlir 


II  innniiiil  III  lull  iliU  } 


Miisi  we  liitii-ly  nrrive  nl  lliis  lii'^hiiiiiiK  ol   n-.i'-  (hhI  yri  ii   i<  rnnujOi.  ( ) 

"iilll  ! 

O  «mil,  wi-  linvr  |tiiiHlvrlv  n|i|iriir(l     ilinl  N  i  nnunh," 

Yts,  NV.ilt  Wliiiiiiaii  has  ajipiairtl.  lie  lias  liis  plat  r  upon  llir 
sta^o,  riu-  (liaina  is  not  cnilril.  Ills  vtiirr  is  still  licinl.  Hi- 
is  il\c  I'lict  ol  I  >('ino«rn«'y — of  all  pcoplr.  llr  is  tlir  pori  ol  ilic 
luuty  and  koiiI.  lie  lias  hoiiiuUmI  tlic  iiolc  ol  liulividtialil v.  lie 
lias  ^{ivcn  tlic  pass  word  piimoval.  Mr  is  tlir  I'oti  ol  I  Inniinilv 
— of  liiti'llft  liial  I  lospilalitv.  He  lias  voi( cd  tlic  a'.piMlmns  of 
Anit'iira-   and.  aliovc  all,  lie  is  Ilic  pod  ol   l.ovf  and  hcilli, 

tlow  ^^alldlv,  liow  liiavrly  lie  lias  ^ivcii  liis  tlioii({lil,  and  liow 


Rl 


ipcili  is  liis  laicwcll  —liis  loavc-tnkinn 


"  AOi'i-  llii'  <iii|i|icr  mill  t  ill(      iidn  llic  dny  i''  iIhih', 
At  n  filiMiil  lioni  fir  mis  Ills  liii;il  williilrmviil  |ii<il'in>;in^, 
(tiMul-liyo  mill  (iiiiiil  liyo  willi  ciiinliiiiiiil  li|w  icim'iiIiii^;, 
(So  lirtiil  fur  liN  limiil  ti>  rrii-usp  ilium-    limiiln — im  ninrr  w  ill  lliry  nicfi, 
No  iiiorr  Im  roiiiiiiuiiioii  of  Konnw  miil  jny.  of  oM  iim!  voiin^, 
A  fm-slicliliiiii^  ioimu'y  nwnils  liiiii,  In  nliiin  no  innir.) 
Sliiiniiiii^;,  |iiiM|iiiiiin^  sovrinncc— •trokin^  lo  wnni  olT  ilir  Inst  woiil  cvri  so 

lilllc. 
EVii  111  llir  rxil-iliMii  liitiihii; — rlinrjjrs  stipi'illiinim  fulling;  Imck — e'en  ns  lir 

lltHl'l'lllls  llio   Sti'pd, 

Si'ini'lliiii^;  lo  ckc  out  n  nilnutP  ndiliilnnnl — Rlimlows  of  nij;lilfi»ll  ilcriiriiin^,. 
l''im'Wi'l!><,  iiirssn^jcs  Irssriiiiij; — (liinnirr  llir  foilli^jncr's  vimijjc  ninl  loini, 
Soon  Id  lie  lost  foi  ;iyi:  in  llio  iluikiicHH — loili,  «)  so  loili  to  ilcjiart  I  " 


,) 


IS 


a82 


IN  RE  WALT  WHITMAN. 


And  is  this  all  ?  Will  the  forthgoer  be  lost,  and  forever?  Is 
■death  the  end  ?  Over  the  grave  bends  Love  sobbing,  and  by  her 
side  stands  Hope  and  whispers  : 

\\q  shall  meet  again.  Before  all  life  is  death,  and  after  all 
death  is  life.  The  falling  leaf,  touched  with  the  hectic  flush, 
that  testifies  of  autumn's  death,  is,  in  a  subtler  sense,  a  prophecy 
of  spring. 

Walt  Whitman  has  dreamed  great  dreams,  told  great  truths  and 
uttered  sublime  thoughts.  He  has  held  aloft  the  torch  and 
bravely  led  the  way. 

As  you  read  the  marvelous  book,  or  the  person,  called  "Leaves 
-of  Grass,"  you  feel  the  freedom  of  the  antique  world ;  you  hear 
the  voices  of  the  morning,  of  the  first  great  singers-voices  ele- 
mental as  those  of  sea  and  storm.  The  horizon  enlarges,  the 
heavens  grow  ample,  limitations  are  forgotten — the  realization 
of  the  will,  the  accomplishment  of  the  ideal,  seem  to  be  within 
your  power.  Obstructions  become  petty  and  disappear.  The 
chains  and  bars  are  broken,  and  the  distinctions  of  caste  are  lost. 
The  soul  is  in  the  open  air^  under  the  blue  and  stars — the  flag 
ot"  Nature.  Creeds,  theories  and  philosophies  ask  to  be  exam- 
ined, contradicted,  reconstructed.  Prejudices  disappear,  super- 
stitions vanish  and  custom  abdicates.  The  sacred  places  become 
higliways,  duties  and  desires  clasp  hands  and  become  comrades 
and  friends.  Authority  drops  the  scepter,  the  priest  the  miter, 
and  the  purple  falls  from  kings.  The  inanimate  becomes  articu- 
late, the  meanest  and  humblest  things  utter  speech  and  the  dumb 
and  voiceless  burst  into  song.  A  feeling  of  independence  takes 
j)ossession  of  the  soul,  the  body  expands,  the  blood  flows  full  .and 
free,  superiors  vanish,  flattery  is  a  lost  art,  and  life  becomes  rich, 
royal,  and  superb.  The  world  becomes  a  personal  possession, 
and  the  oceans,  the  continents,  and  constellations  belong  to  you. 
You  are  in  the  centre,  everything  radiates  from  you,  and  in  your 
veins  beats  and  throbs  the  pulse  of  all  life.  You  become  a  rover, 
careless  and  free.  You  wander  by  the  shores  of  all  seas  and  hear 
the  eternal  psalm.  You  feel  the  silence  of  the  wide  forest,  and 
stand  beneath  the  intertwined  and  ovemrching  boughs,  entranced 
-witli  symphonies  of  winds  and  woods.     You  are  borne  on  the 


LIBERTY  IS  LirERArURE.  283 

tides  of  eager  and  swift  rivers,  hear  the  rush  and  roar  of  cataracts 
as  they  fall  beneath  the  seven-Inied  arch,  and  watch  the  eagles  as 
they  circling  soar.  You  traverse  gorges  dark  and  dim,  and  climb 
the  scarred  and  threatening  cliffs.  You  stand  in  orchards  where 
the  blossoms  fall  like  snow,  where  the  birds  nest  and  sing,  and 
painted  moths  make  aimless  journeys  through  the  happy  air. 
You  live  the  lives  of  those  who  till  the  earth,  and  walk  amid  the 
perfumed  Ids,  hear  the  reapers'  song,  and  feel  the  breadth  and 
scope  of  I.  .irth  and  sky.  You  are  in  the  great  cities,  in  the  midst 
of  multitudes,  of  the  endless  processions.  You  are  on  the  wide 
plains — the  prairies — with  hunter  and  trapper,  with  savage  and 
pioneer,  and  you  feel  the  soft  grass  yielding  under  your  feet. 
You  sail  in  many  ships,  and  breathe  the  free  air  of  the  sea.  You 
travel  many  roads,  and  countless  paths.  You  visit  palaces  and 
prisons,  hospitals  and  courts ;  you  pity  kings  and  convicts,  and 
your  sympathy  goes  out  to  all  the  suffering  and  insane,  the  op- 
pressed and  enslaved,  and  even  to  the  infiimous.  You  hear  the 
din  of  labor,  all  sounds  of  factory,  field,  and  forest,  of  all  tools, 
instrument?  and  machines.  You  become  familiar  with  men  and 
women  of  all  employments,  trades  and  professions — with  birth 
and  burial,  with  wedding  feast  and  funeral  chant.  You  see  the 
cloud  and  flame  of  war,  and  you  enjoy  the  ineffable  perfect  days 
of  peace.  In  this  one  book,  in  these  wondrous  "  Leaves  of 
Grass,"  you  find  hints  and  suggestions,  touches  and  fragments, 
of  all  there  is  of  life,  that  lies  between  the  babe,  whose  rounded 
cheeks  dimple  beneath  his  mother's  laughing,  loving  eyes,  and 
the  old  man,  snow-crowned,  who,  with  a  smile,  extends  his 
hand  to  death. 

We  have  met  to-night  to  honor  ourselves  by  honoring  the 
author  of  "  Leaves  of  Grass." 


^1 


Tnv  sympnilu-  of  Wliilniiin  i'<  IvMinillc^s — not  n\i\n  nlnne  ov  nniiiials  nli^nr, 
but  biwlf  iimuimrtte  tvitiivo  is  ah  oihcii  anil  ns'^iniilrttoil  in  his  exlvaonlinrtiy 
|HMv>n,il\ty.  Often  we  thinU  owe  of  t'lr  t'lenietitR  of  natui-e  has  fmiml  n  voice, 
mill  thmiilevs  m-eat  syUaMes  in  o\u  eais.  He  sjieaU^  like  sonuMhing  more 
than  man — sonu-lhing  tienienilous.  Something  (hat  we  know  not  speaks 
wonls  thnt  we  oanniit  oompiehenil.  He  is  not  ovec-anxions  to  he  nnilcfstood. 
N<^  man  i-ont|>ieIienils  what  the  twittering  of  thi  ciistart  |Meei>;ely  means,  or 
can  express  deal ly  in  iloliniie  hinguage  the  sioniluanee  of  tlie  rising  sun.  He 
too  is  elemental  anil  a  part  of  Nature — not  merely  a  clever  man  writing 
|xiems. 

The  iniellecturtlism  whidi  has  marked  the  century — the  cnliivation  of  sen- 
timent anil  the  eni.^iions — thre^itcnoil  to  enfeeble  and  emasiulale  the  eilncateil 
classes.  I'he  strong  voice  of  Whitman,  showing  again  ami  again,  in  meta- 
phors and  images,  ii\  startling  vivid  mentorahle  language,  the  supreme  need  of 
sweet  hlooil  and  pure  (Icsh,  the  dcliglit  of  vigor  and  activitv  and  of  mere  ex- 
istence where  there  is  health,  the  pleasures  of  mere  stjciety,  even  without 
clever  conversation, — of  haihing,  swimming,  riding,  nnd  the  inhaling  of  pure 
nir — has  so  arrested  the  mind  of  the  worhl,  that  a  relapse  to  scholasticism  is 
no  longer  possible. 


Stftni/ish  O'Grnay-.   "  H',(,V    U'hi/»i<i»,    The   J\H-t  of  Ja 


(284) 


WALT  WHITMAN. 


RJUUNl'  MAVKlLh  liLXKE. 


....  And  now  rt  word  Upon  Wall  Wliitmnti'swritinps.  They 
consist  of  two  volumes — o\ie  ol  poetry,  "Leaves  of  (trass;" 
the  other  of  prose,  "Specimen  Days  and  Collect,"  containing 
a  varied  collection  of  autobiographical  sketches,  descriptions  of 
nature,  and  all  siuts  of  impressions,  with,  further,  a  philosojihic 
essay  upon  the  iniport  and  the  future  of  American  Democ- 
racy. His  poetry,  however,  is  the  piimework  of  his  life  ;  the 
rest  n\ust  he  considered  as  supplement  or  commentary.  It  is, 
therefore,  with  the  "  Leaves"  that  we  shall  chiefly  occupy  our- 
selves. The  l)cst  introihution  would  perhaps  he  lo<piote  one  of 
the  small  poems  called  "Inscriptions,"  which  stand  at  the  be- 
ginning of  the  book. 

Here,  then,  are  the  first  words  of  "  Leaves  of  Grass  :  " 

"  Oite's-.Self  I  siiifj.  n  siini'le  sppnrrtte  pevsnii, 
Yel  utter  (lie  wonl  iH'iniiriiilii',  ilie  wonl  luiMasse. 

0{  physiiilony  fioi"  tnj)  to  toe  I  siiifr, 

Nt'l  pl\ysii>^notiiy  nlmie  nor  lintin  aluiie  is  worthy  for  the  Muse,  1  say  the 
Fonn  loiuplote  is  wnrlhier  fni, 
I     The  Female  equally  with  the  Mule  I  sing. 

or  l,ife  Immense  in  passion,  pulse,  and  power, 
( "hcerriil,  for  freest  action  forniM  under  the  laws  divine, 
ri»e  Modern  Man  1  sinp." 

Here  is  announced,  with  the  finest  accuracy,  the  tnatcrial  of 
Whitman's  verse.  And  what  material  !  The  poets  of  the  present, 
while  o<  I  upying  themselves  nierely  with  the  sitrfacc  of  life,  have 
arrived  at  so  fine  a  technical  result  that  we  seldom  feel  any  want 

(285) 


286 


ly  RK    WALT   WHITMAN. 


ill  tills  respect.  And  yet  there  is  wanting  that  which  gives  to 
every  phenomenon  of  our  days  its  real  worth  and  importance. 
Where  is  the  poet  who  has  taken  comjilete  possession  of  the  niind- 
roiupicsts  of  this  singular  age,  and  who  has  taken  into  himself, 
and  |)oeti(ally  presented,  modern  man  witli  his  terrible  energy, 
his  unexampled  intellectnal  activity  and  his  infinite  boldness  in 
word  and  deed?  If  this  age  is  actually  to  be  represented  in  lit- 
erature, it  must  be  done  by  one  who  is  able  to  reconcile  the  all- 
denying  spirit  of  analytics  with  the  all-.tftirming  spirit  of  democ- 
racy— who  can  embrace  in  himself  the  intricate  spiritual  strivings 
of  the  age,  demonstrate  their  true  direction,  and,  by  the  inexpli- 
cable powers  of  a  magic  personality,  impart  to  that  which  is  now 
impotent  through  dispersion  the  miglitiest  effectiveness.  That  is 
Walt  Whitman's  task,  and  that  task  he  has  fulfilled.  But  do  not 
let  us  be  in  a  hurry  to  imagine  that  in  a  way  so  easy  and  off- 
hand we  shall  be  able  to  acknowledge  in  this  Yankee  the  world- 
poet  of  the  age.  As  I  have  already  inilicated,  his  recognition 
demands  a  self-examination  such  as  we  each  hesitate  to  undertake. 
Moreover,  the  first  impression  of  the  book,  considered  as  art,  is 
not  an  attractive  one,  but  rather  one  of  surprise  or  even  conster- 
nation. In  it  we  have  an  entirely  new  literary  form,  a  new 
method  of  treatment,  and  sniijects  strange  to  all  preceding  poetry. 
All  rules,  all  deeply  meditated  definitions,  are  demolished  ;  of 
antecedent  poetry  nothing  remains — except  the  poetry. 

It  is  now  high  time  for  me  to  give  my  hearers  some  idea  of  the 
actual  contents  of  this  work — of  the  doctrine  which  is  its  special 
mark.  But  the  book  does  not  easily  lend  itself  to  an  interpreter, 
liecause,  among  other  things,  so  much  depends  upon  the  person- 
ality of  the  author.  And  fiirther,  although  I  have  been  familiar 
with  "  Leaves  of  GrAss  "  for  some  six  years,  I  am  certain  that  I 
have  still  only  a  superficial  idea  of  its  contents.  But,  superficial 
as  it  may  be  compared  with  the  full  meaning  which  still  lies  be- 
yond me,  even  this  seems  worth  reporting. 

There  are  many  things  in  Whitman's  works  which  should  as- 
sure him  special  consideration  in  Germany.  He  is  the  greatest 
poetic  representative  of  that  which  is  usually  considered  a  prime 
focal   point   in  German  philosophy.     In  the  philosophy  of  the 


WALT   W II 173! AN. 


287 


modern  world  there  are  apparcnlly  only  two  princii)al  currents — 
the  one  starting  from  England,  the  other  from  Germany.  In 
England,  as  is  well  known,  thinkers  are  chiefly  occupied  with  the 
laws  of  ])iicn()mena — the  manner  of  their  origin,  and  liow  they 
condition  each  other;  with  all,  in  short,  which  may  be  called 
their  visible  activities.  But  in  the  philosophy  especially  charac- 
teristic of  Germany  the  starting  point  is  from  the  inner,  the  sub- 
jective, not  from  the  outer,  the  objective  ;  that  is  to  say,  it  does  , 
not  consider  tiie  material  of  speculation  as  so  given  in  experience 
that  we  have  nothing  more  to  do  than  to  observe  certain  relations- 
and  sequences. 

German  thought  prefers  to  absorb  itself  in  the  content  of  the 
soul-life — it  seeks  to  formulate  continually  deeper  and  clearer 
the  various  ideas  and  experiences  which  go  to  make  up  this 
content — it  desires,  in  fact,  to  be  certain  of  its  premises  before 
it  proceeds  to  draw  conclusions.  And  when  the  ])rol)lem  is 
thus  presented  it  becomes  clear  that  the  true  task  of  philosophy 
is  not  to  draw  conclusions  on  this  and  that,  but  really  to  lift  the 
inner  life  more  and  more  into  the  light  of  consciousness.  Ger- 
man philosophy  keeps  thus  firm  hold  of  the  center  of  the  thinking 
soul,  and  does  not  lose  itself  in  observation.  Phenomena  and 
thflr  laws  are  not  regarded  as  inde|)eiulent  facts,  setting  bounds- 
to  the  activity  of  the  soul,  but  rather  as  expressions  of  its  activ- 
ity— as  fiues,  rather  than  as  fetters,  of  the  soul.  Now,  in  Walt 
Whitman  this  principle  of  procedure — the  principle,  namely,  of 
continuously  working  in  towards  the  center,  towards  the  primi- 
tive actuality  of  things — receives  the  most  manifold  and  interest- 
ing application.  For  example,  religions,  social  theories,  political 
institutions  and  the  like  become  for  him  vapor  and  dust  the  mo- 
ment that  either  in  word  or  deed  they  claim  or  are  given  an  in- 
dependence which  places  them  beyond  or  in  contradistinction  to 
the  life  of  man.  But  they  are  deprived  of  their  significance  only 
in  order  to  receive  for  the  first  time  their  real  significance.  P'or 
they  are  all  utterances  of  the  human  spirit,  and  for  every  one  who 
regards  them  from  the  proper  point  of  view  they  emit  some  ray 
of  the  godhood  that  they  contain. 

Here  I  should  be  glad  to  insert  an  extended  specimen  wliich. 


-^  .1^: 


388 


/iV  j"l-:   ,VALr   WI/fTMAX. 


might  be  taken  as  typical  of  his  fitat  period  style  as  well  as  of 
his  views: 


"  I  heard  what  was  said  of  the  universe, 
Heard  it  and  heard  it  of  several  thous'^n''.  yea-s; 
It  is  middling  well  as  far  as  it  goos — but  is  ihat  all? 

Magnifying  and  applying  come  I, 

Outbidding  at  the  start  the  old  cautious  huckrtcrs, 

T;.king  myself  the  exact  dimensions  of  Jehovah, 

Lithographing  Kronos,  Zeus  his  son,  and  Hercules  his  grandson, 

Buying  drafts  of  Osiris,  Isis,  Helus,  Ikalmia,  lUiddha, 

In  my  portfolio  placing  Manito  loose,  Allah  on  a  leaf,  the  crucifix  engraved, 

With  Odin  and  the  hideous-faced  Mexiili  am;  every  idol  and  image, 

Taking  them  all  for  what  they  are  worth  and  not  a  cent  iiore, 

Admitting  they  were  alive  and  did  the  work  of  theii  days, 

(They  bore  mites  as  for  unflcdg'd  birds  who  Dave  now  to  rise  and  fly  and 

sing  for  themselves,) 
Accepting  the  rough  deitic  sketches  to  fill  out  better  in  myself,  bestowing 

them  freely  on  each  man  and  woman  I  see, 
Discovering  as  much  or  more  in  a  framer  framing  a  house. 
Putting  higher  claims  for  him  there  with  iiis  roH'dup  sleeves  driving  the 

mallet  and  chisel, 
Not  objecting  to  special  revelations,  Considering  a  curl  of  smoke  or  a  hair 

on  the  back  of  my  hand  just  as  curious  as  any  revelation, 
Lads  ahold  of  fire-engines  and  hook-and-Iadder  ropes  no  less  to  me  than 

the  gods  of  the  antique  wars. 
Minding  their  voices  peal  through  the  crash  of  destruction, 
Their  brawny  limbs  passing  safe  over  charr'd  laths,  their  while  foreheads 

whole  an.'  unhurt  out  of  the  lames ; 
By  the  mechanic     wife  with  her  Ijabe  at  her  nipple  interceding  for  every 

person  born. 
Three  scythes  at  harvest  whizzing  in  a  row  from  three  lusty  angels  with  shirts 

bagg'd  out  at  their  waists. 
The  snagtooth'd  hostler  with  red  hair  redeeming  sins  past  and  to  come, 
Selling  all  he  possesses,  travelling  on  foot  to  fee  lawyers  for  his  brother  and 

sit  by  him  while  he  is  tried  for  forgery ; 
What  was  strewn  in  the  amplest  strewing  the  square  rod  about  me,  and  not 

filling  the  square  rod  then,  , 

The  bull  and  the  bug  never  worshipp'd  half  enough, 
Dung  and  dirt  more  admirable  than  was  dream'd. 
The  supernatural  of  no  account,  myself  waiting  my  time  to  be  one  of  the 

supremes. 


), 


\. 


WALT   WIIirHAy, 


•% 


and  not 


). 


The  (lay  getting  ready  for  mc  when  I  sliall  do  as  much  good  as  the  best,  and 

l)c  as  prodij^ious  ; 
Ily  my  'ifcdmnps  !  Ijoconiinj;  already  a  creator, 
I'uttin^i  myself  iicre  and  now  to  the  ambush'd  worn!)  of  the  shadows." 

Monstrous  and  ini poetic  as  these  expressions,  these  metaphors, 
may  sound,  1  beg  my  hearen  to  believe  that  they  sound  the  same 
in  English  as  in  German. 

At  Whitman's  first  appearance  he  was  ridiculed  as  a  lunatic — 
save  where  it  was  shocked  by  his  audacity — by  the  whole  literary 
world,  the  highest  spirits,  such  as  Tennyson  and  Emerson,  alone 
excepted. 

But  along  with  his  ^glorification  of  the  begetting  spirit, we  may 
set  the  I'ollowing  glorification  of  the  begotten,  which  is  composed 
in  a  milder  key  : 

"  Not  you  alone  proud  truths  of  the  world, 
Noi-  you  alone  ye  facts  of  modern  science, 
l!ut  myths  and  fables  of  eld,  Asia's,  Africa's  fables, 
The  far-darting  l)eams  of  the  spirit,  the  unloos'd  dreams. 
The  dee|)  diving  i)ihles  and  legends, 
The  daring  plots  of  the  poets,  the  elder  religions ; 
O  you  temples  fairer  than  lilies  jiour'd  over  liy  the  rising  sun! 
O  you  failles  s]iurning  the  known,  eluding  the  hold  of  the  known,  mounting 

to  heaven  ! 
You  lofty  and  dazzling  towers,  pinnacled,  red  as  roses,  burnish'd  with  gold! 
Towers  of  fables  immortal  fasliion'd  from  mortal  dreams! 
You  too  I  welcome  and  fully  the  same  as  the  rest! 
You  too  with  joy  I  sing."  :  | 

Walt  Whitman  is  essentially  and  in  the  first  place  a  poet,  not 
a  philosopher  ;  but  that  he  has  occupied  himself  with  philosophic 
questions,  and  in  a  ])hilosophic  manner,  will  be  clear  to  every 
reader.  And  in  this  respect  he  stands  in  a  special  relationship  to 
his  age,  in  which  thought  has  achieved  an  unexampled  influence 
over  action.  In  these  days  a  purely  mechanical  conception  of 
the  universe  has  found  the  most  extraordinary  dissemination.  Is 
the  origin  of  this  mode  of  thinking  to  be  sought  in  the  spirit  of 
freedom,  which  during  this  and  the  preceding  century  has  arisen 
in  EurojK,  and  which  not  seldom  in  the  extremity  of  its  insolence 
19 


t90 


IN  RE   WALT   Wlffr.VAX. 


degenerates  into  the  Platonic  v/3pt{?  It  is  certain,  in  any  case, 
that  the  philosophy  of  the  present  day  is  characterized  by  a  strong 
disinclination  to  acknowledge  any  authority  whatever.  No  one 
is  willing  to  take  up  the  position  of  a  learner — of  a  non-knower — 
nor  to  believe  that  anotlier  can  see  light  and  symmetry  where  for 
himself  nothing  but  darkness  exists.  The  cuteness  which  dis- 
covers logical  connections  is  plentifully  at  hand — but  not  so  the 
wholesome  and  noble  scepticism  which  not  only  questions  the 
insight  of  others,  but  also,  and  chiefly,  its  own.  For  exam])le, 
when  a  thinker  like  Herbert  Spencer  seeks  to  go  to  the  founda- 
tion of  the  idea  of  duty,  he  begins  with  the  first  conception  of 
it  that  comes  to  hand  in  his  (in  certain  directions)  very  limited 
understanding,  thus  :  that  duty  is  metcly  ra  impulse  which  at 
times  forces  us  to  the  voluntary  endurance  of  avoidable  unpleas- 
antnesses— believing  hereby  that  he  has  exhausted  the  meaning 
of  the  idea  of  duty,  and  proceeding  calmly  in  his  examination 
without  any  suspicion  that  duty  can  really  be  anything  other  than 
what  he  takes  it  for  and  what  he  has  assumed  it  to  be.  Now,  for 
those  who  reject  such  mechanical  philosophy  the  great  problem 
of  the  century  is  the  upholding  and  strengthening  of  the  idea 
that  moral  conceptions  have  (rooted  in  the  nature  of  the  mind 
itself  and  independently  of  objectivity)  an  aim  and  a  determinate 
place  in  the  general  scheme. 

Those  holding  these  latter  views  will  find  a  powerful  friend  in 
Whitman.  It  is  doubtless  true  that  Whitman  does  not  furnish  us 
with  the  facile,  cut  and  dried,  proof  such  as  might,  without  giving 
us  any  trouble,  dispe!  all  jur  uncertainties.  In  matters  of  tliis 
sort,  in  the  long  run,  logic  is  of  no  avail ;  and  what  \Vhitman 
does  for  us  goes  to  the  heart  of  the  problem,  for  he  helps  us  to 
see  with  our  own  eyes  all  objects  of  thought  as  they  exist.  He 
gradually  strengthens  in  us  the  religious  sense.  We  feel  ourselves, 
at  last,  in  relationship  not  with  merely  dead,  mechanical  objects, 
but  with  utterances  'f  a  living  essence.  We  experience  with 
respect  to  the  whole  objective  world  the  same  transformation  as 
that  which  happens  when  our  formal  opinions  become  converted 
into  vital  convictions.  We  know  that  it  is  not  only  possible,  but 
that  it  also  frequently  happens,  that  we  can  firmly  believe  in  a 


? 


n  any  case, 
by  a  strong 
No  one 
i-knower — 
y  where  for 
which  dis- 
not  so  tlie 
estions  the 
ir  example, 
he  founda- 
ception  of 
sry  limited 
:  which  at 
le  unpleas- 
le  meaning 
<amination 
other  than 
Now,  fur 
It  problem 
»f  the  idea 
'  the  mind 
eterminate 

il  friend  in 

;  furnish  us 

lOUt  giving 

ers  of  this 

:  Whitman 

lelps  us  to 

xist.     He 

ourselves, 

al  objects, 

ence  with 

mation  as 

converted 

ssible,  but 

lieve  in  a 


,> 


WALT  wnirMAN.  tfi 

thing  without  this  belief  having  any  actual  influence  upon  cue 
life  or  mode  of  thought. 

For  example:  how  many  are  there  now  in  the  world  who  are 
convmced  of  the  truth  of  the  Christian  doctrine  of  the  immor- 
tality  of  the  soul — that  is  to  say,  that  there  is  a  future  life  in. 
which  the  material  victories  and  defeats  of  the  present  will  count 
for  notliing,  but  where  the  spirit  in  which  we  have  acted  wilf 
count  for  all !  And  yet  it  strikes  us  as  an  altogether  abnormal 
exception  when  we  meet  with  a  man  who  goes  through  life  with 
the  peace  of  mind  which  is  the  logical  outcome  of  this  belief. 
According  to  Cardinal  Newman,  who,  in  an  extremely  interest- 
ing work,  has  examined  the  psychology  of  the  subject,  this  state; 
in  which  our  views  and  feelings  stand  opposed  to  each  other 
might  rightly  be  called  one  of  "  formal  "  belief — a  state  wiiich 
he  distinguishes  from  that  of  effective,  "actual  "  belief.  Now, 
it  happens  not  unfrequently  that  a  formal  belief  of  this  descrip- 
tion passes  into  an  actual  belief.  How  can  such  a  change  have 
been  effected  ?  Only,  as  it  seems  to  me,  by  the  fact  that  a  new 
relation  between  us  and  the  object  of  our  belief  has  been  in  some 
manner  brought  about  by  means  of  which  the  object  is  no  longer 
for  us  a  mere  name,  a  logical  conclusion,  a  tradition,  but  a  thing, 
an  actuality,  touching  the  deeps  of  our  consciousness.  No  matter 
in  what  way  we  describe  the  thing,  every  one  is  acquainted 
with  it,  and  I  need  only  call  attention  to  the  fact  that  this  pro- 
cess of  actualization  can  take  place  equally  v  here  the  result  may 
be  described  no":  as  an  ascent,  or  belief,  "  formal  "  or  "  actual," 
but  as  a  vital,  spiritual  perception,  avVKi^tfii,  of  the  object  in 
question.  The  bringing  about  of  such  a  relationship  between 
the  human  soul  and  the  whole  inner  and  outer  world  is  a  prime 
feature  of  Whitman's  effect  upon  his  readers.  When  he  has  ac- 
complished this,  he  believes  that  he  has  accomplished  every- 
thing, for  the  perception  in  their  actuality  of  the  things  of  ordi- 
nary experience  is  religion  and  begets  ethics. 

On  this  point  Whitman  stands  in  close  relationship  with 
another  great  poet,  William  Wordsworth.  If  Whitman  has  any 
predecessor,  this  predecessor  is  Wordsworth.  For  each  equally 
primarily  sets  himself  to  the  unlocking  of  the  springs  of  rever- 


9t)2 


L\  UK   WALl'   WHITMAN. 


enic, juy  niul  nulilc  pasniun  which  lie  (-oiitaincd  in  uur  relation- 
ships  to  the  facts  of  daily  life.  \Vhcn«c  it  is  that  they  derive  the 
faculty  for  the  solving  of  this  riddle,  what  it  is  tli.it  makes  their 
words  so  c(To(  live,  is  pret  i«icly  the  inexplicable  cleinent  in  poetry. 
Hill  It  IS  the  privilege  of  poets  to  be  able  to  express  tlieiP  own 
perception  of  things  in  sue  i»  a  manner  as  to  enable  nsalso  to  per- 
ceive with  their  eyes,  provided  we  are  morally  (pialified — pro- 
'  '  ■  "'Mt  is,  that  knowleilge,  insight  into  the  sonl  of  things,  is 
v  consotinciue  to  us  tiian  that  empty  a<  quaintam  eship 
with  names  and  appearances  which  usvially  passes  for  knowl- 
edge.  .   .  . 

I  have  said  th.it  Whitman  t  laims  to  derive  the  conviction  of 
the  divine  from  every  i'orm  of  experience.  From  every  form  ? 
Even  iVom  that  which  we  » all  evil  ?  Yes,  most  certainly — from 
tvil  also.   .   .   . 

Whitman  knows  nothing  of  exceptions.  'I'o  him  (lod  is  in 
vvil  .is  well  as  in  gootl.  Is  such  doctrine  immor.il  ?  If  it  is, 
then  are  we  in  a  truly  lamentable  condition,  for  the  reverse  doc- 
trine is  <  ertainly  highly  immoral — the  belief,  natnely,  that  evil, 
as  such,  has  an  independent  existence  as  a  primeval  principle. 
SiK  h  a  theory  must  degenerate  either  into  a  revolting  devil-wor- 
ship or  into  equally  revolting  cruelties  pra<tised  upon  those  who 
stand  presumably  in  the  devil's  service.  Or,  should  I  rather  say, 
it  would  llius  degenerate  were  we  not,  as  already  remarked,  often 
so  little  aware  of  the  real  content  of  our  belief?  Hut  is  not  the 
doctrine  ol  pantheism  also  necessarily  immoral  in  the  Iiict  that  it 
seems  indiscriminately  to  mix  and  accept  evil  with  good  ?  It 
might  easily  become  so,  but  Whitman's  conception  of  it  escapes 
such  danger.   ,   .   . 

Walt  Wlytman  contemplates  the  world,  as  presented  to  our 
consciousness,  in  the  form  of  a  continually  ascending  succession 
of  struggles  and  acquisitions.  The  theory  of  the  origin  of  moral 
evil  (of  which  alone  we.  naturally,  are  speaking  here),  which 
seems  to  be  involved  in  Whitman's  teaching,  stands  in  direct  con- 
junction with  this  general  theory  of  evolution.  The  first  ap- 
pearance of  evil  marks  the  beginning  of  a  new  step — the  birth 


of  a  new  ideal. 


The  stage  of  self-consciousness  has  been  reached 


♦i» 


UAl.T   WUITMAy, 


•93 


— then  inexplirably  arise  amoii^;  mon  tlic  idi-as  of  fiilli,  love, 
jiistici",  etc.,  eai  li  man  lK<()nung  more  or  k-ss  aware  of  tlie 
Itreseuce  and  ilaims  of  tlu-se -and  in  so  far  as  he  becomes  so 
aware,  in  so  far  does  any  violation  of  them  become  sin,  Sin, 
llierefore,  is  tiu*  offsprinj;  of  the  gradually  unfoldinj;  lonscious- 
ness  of  an  ideal.  A  sinful  act  is,  in  anti  fur  itself,  an  expression 
of  life  like  everything  else,  and  conl.iins,  for  llmse  wlio  have 
been  enlightened  by  the  spirit  of  Whitman,  that  which  slinndales 
to  the  most  rcsoltUe  battle. 

Walt  Whitman's  poems  resemble  in  many  respects  the  produc- 
tions of  nature  ;  among  other  things,  in  that  tliey  seem  to  have 
been  created  without  any  regird  to  the  verdict  of  nnthinking 
men.  Vor  were  it  otherwise  he  would  certainly  never  have 
uttered  such  views  as,  for  instance,  the  following  : 


"  I'nrtnUcr  of  influx  nnd  efflux  I,  cNtollcr  of  hntc  nnd  concilintitm, 
KxtdlliT  uf  amies  nnd  those  tliitt  sleep  in  each  others'  nrnis, 

I  !\ni  lie  atlcstiug  syni|iiitliy, 

(Shall  I  iiiiikf  my  list  of  iliiiijjs  in  the  house  nml  skip  the  house  ih.nt  ^iip- 
|i(iils  tlicm  ?) 

I  nm   not  ilic  |ini't  of  ^oodnew  only,  I  ilo  not  decline  to  he  the  pod  nf 
wii'ki'chu'ss  also. 

What  liliirl  is  this  al'oul  virtue  and  nliout  vice  ? 

Mvil  propels  me  and  reform  of  evil  |iidpels  mc,  I  slanil  indilTcrent, 

My  ({ait  is  no  fault-tinder's  or  rejecter's  gait, 

I  moisten  the  roots  of  all  that  has  j;ro\vn."  ' 

In  politics  Whitman  is  a  rigid  democrat.  His  works  are  the 
first  embodiment  of  the  genuitie  democratic  spirit  in  literattire  ; 
for  it  is  undeniable  that  no  other  has  seen,  as  he  has  seen  and 
presented  in  his  writing,  what  infinite  titistirmiscd  meanitigs  are 
contained  in  this  word  democracy.  \\y  him  the  struggle  bctwecti 
republicanistn  and  monarchism  is  regarded  in  an  almost  religious 
light.  If  it  coulil  be  proved  that  disseminated  well-being,  peace 
and  order,  were  only  possible  under  a  despotic  gnverntnent, 
Whitman  would  still  adhere  to  republicanism,  for  iti  his  view,  a» 
already  said,  the  course  of  the  development  of  mankind  is  pri- 


♦  • 


mtl 


rv  Kh'  w\n  ii7»/tH« V, 


ululonilun  \\\\\\  \\\v  r^tMrntr  tUdl  v\)\\\  •\\  t\\\v\\r\urn  nl  ii|li«Mi», 
\\\\\\  lltiU  It  n\«\  Mtitu  M\itti<  itHil  Mtitii'  In  t'fti  mill  nil  ii'iii  I-  ilit« 

•\i  »l\i«lllV  "I  lln-M'  rl|>rHt'<ltfi  I  IU-(  \h\\\\\  nl  vii'M  lirlll^  |lC»l  llliil, 
«hr  «t»hlllHi  ol  ilii\\(>rli»t  V  t»l«'  illiM  llltlllinl.  illlil  lU  tlii*  titiui< 
MM^r  itliU  i\i\il  lliwll  \\\r  ^\\r\\  \\\  \\uw\  Pnlllli  ill  iliul  •iilt  iill  llt> 
•vlmilinil*.  llliinnh  (lhv:l\n  Wllll  <  uulnti,  niiHl  in  llu-  |nnn  nut  I).. 
•Iiir.  ir.l  in  plitt  iiiH  iiiiil  Ituln^  niiiihliiil  In  iln-  iitn>ii  \Ulil 
|«n<^l|^ll•  I  noMii  Willi  lirf  Hill  llinin  :l  ilin|in||iin,  lie  ||  ||n\« 
t\»i  niluihlrlliM!.  ll\r  %\m\\  im|iit>>«>«lnil  nl  lllV  1^  l«lniin|  ;  II  MiitV 
l>.'  rmlu'lKOinl.  ImiI  lilt'  n\H\^r  ii|  \\\r  )«llinlllvr  iIchichH  nl  i-llllti 

llif  mniili'ii  \\\\\\  miimVll»MlU'M  nl   «<il<li-nir     n  iml  I'l  ll  In  liji 
jM»'<n\l  iiinl  i\\  niiil 

Ol\r  nl  \VluiM\;\n'<»  tlliil)i|»'-«  llrt^f^lil  llvii  il  \\v  lliiil  iiwlllillH 
III  Imiii  h|MiUUt  ni  nllViWUr.  «r  iiiu  l<i'  unllc  '.iiU'  iliiil  ilinr  U 
\\«\\VniM  ni  (IrlVii  \i\  niiHi'Uci  ll  ihiii  In  inir.  ,|.|  I  ilniilv  l»i«- 
lir\r.  ll^r  *l,\lr  nl  <t»r>h  nl  ilililv  sr;«H  ilun  iniinl,  In  iriMllI 
ihirrlliMl*.  hiUr  hnW  «  vnv  inilnililiy  niic.  Ini  llir  fiiiltii  nil 
non*  ol  •'  rrrt\rn  \\\  Uirtw"  wnc  n-tchTil  wiili  :in  iilninti  iinl- 
\»'Mi\l  \UA\\  nl  >^\l|l^n\^lnn  I'ln-  iritnn  lluiml  \\\  in  \  <«n  linn 
«M  ihr*  j\n.»n<  «  illnl  "  riilMirn  nl  \iliin,"  ill  wlmli  Wliltinin 
^injl'*  ;M\»I  ulnill^oi  lllr  vMlniiniH  in  ni.in  njin  l.|ll\  Willi  Irpllil  In 
Ihr  irliMInn  ol  \\\r  %v\r'^  \\\\Wv\\\,  In  inv  o|ilninn.  llit-i.'  j-nr-nm 
Aiv  nni,  ImiI  \hv  «ilii«i*n»  whuli  nnhnniillv  ^vU-t\'\  ilinn  I'm  illi. 
iH'^^inn  wu\  MMulrinnuinn  i««  rxnrmrlv  iiulnr'nl  I'n  iliin  ^||^. 
»n<Mon.  ihiMvl'oir.  \  Will  nni  .  nniiilmli-.  I«iii  I  nniM  .^ill  iiiiiii 
tinn  in  iln>  i',\,  i  ilr\i  \\w  ••  riiiMu-n  nl  A(l;iin  "  iiic  .<iin|»h  iln' 
niiniil  ir.ihrMinn  nl  Whiinvin'n  urniiiiifh  ilnnni niiii  ii|t;i| 
nl  lMun.\n  lilr  In  lii»  niMiunn,  thin  iilr.il  lln«•^  nni  i  nnnlM  in  lllt« 
«lr\x-ln|M\^rni  nl  <tii:i\n  nrln  inl  I'lmlin-i  iml  'tnpriiniilirn,  Iml  in 
ihr  ilrvclnpincnl  nl  \\\;\\\\  »  ninplrir  niilinr  Hf  ilm^  nni  •uiK 
10  1\Mn>  imu'h  ;\  \i\\\\\\  in.in  i\  ninn  r:i|Ml\|i«  nl  -ifli  i  ninniiiinl 
\liKr  v;niil\<'>  <n  :\  Mivnnnii'>.  lit<l|M\\|  nvin.  I>nl  :in  iill  iniiinl, 
r\ri\  WW  <nn\pl«-t«*  \\\A\\  \\m  i<  in  nsw.  nnr  wlin,  \\\  ihr  rx»M'- 
» iv  nt  .Ml  h  pnmi  nl  \\\n  n^tinu>,  !■<  niivvMr  nl  l\ll.||ll^  ih.n  wliii  h 
iVrtkoi  him  h:\p|>\  :\inl  iaKcs  lnn\  \nni;»ll\  I'niw.inl       In  iliin  itint 


»*4M'  H^MtWlrtr. 


inn 


till  tr  It  ilitltltllrnii  liii  l(hlltthl^  inlKliiiiHh  i  l>  In  ntl^linil  milt  lit 
llliil  I  |t'iiini<M  ttl  vNliiM  hIiIi  li  |it'ti  t'lvrn  rtll  Mic  l)i'ittlii|i*i  n|  llir 
liltMt,  lUdl  llii«l  tiiillliii  liltiH  U'miiIhiIiiii  lit  imlli^r  ll  III  |ilit(  licit, 

lit  iiiit)  liiijf  •    riifti-  iiir  III  U'lillMinir.i  nmtit   lilt'*'-  iHmiihIv 
niiiiltliinl  i|iitlllli'>i  tvlilili  ii'iMiiii'  III  llii'iii  II  lii'illiip  ivMilIt  iMiiiiit^ 

innilltlllil  I  lltl,  (VI-  !llr  lllilili'  lllVill^  III  llllii  III  III!  uiilltlll^  III 
rtH  lllti'lltM  I  mIiiihi'  iIi'|i|Ii  iinl  i  iMii|ifi>m  ii|i|u<iim  iiiiilr  iiliil  liinlr 
imlitllllillliK  till-  hilllii'l  tu'  |ii'lit<lliil)<  Ihlii  It  Mi'i  iilitl,  «vi<  lliiil  III 
liliil  i»«i"illli  III  |iimI|i  |im«i|  tvliiiti'  liniiih  l|ii|iM'MMr'i  ihi  llic  iiiiiir 
IHiiliillllilU  illlll  l;l>llllip,lv  liil  llic  M'lV  li'il'iiill  lll'll  II  It  Mill  llhulf 
till  I'llll  II. Ill    Illlll  III  ll'li'll.         Illllll,   llir    III    H'tllli-I    I'l  li|iil||>lll     Illlll 

^r<lilllnliHlil|i  «vllli  •iiiiiir'lliliiK  mIIII  iiiiiii<  lllliltiiiil  iiiiil  \  ultiiilili'  lliiili 
r^llllfl  lllltlln  I  III  |iilt<|IV  Ik  llltil'l  lIlMl  nil  lllilrit  llliillili',  Illllll 
•  ill  |ii'lMii||!il  llilllinii  r>  MlliilliiM  Inill)  liniii  llifMf  ItiHi'i  ;  lie  I'l  IhiI 
liliMl^lit  Illlll  I  oliliti  I  mIiIi  iI  IiiimIi  lull  ivllll  II  Illllll  ivllli  ti  lllcllll, 
WIltlHI*  t«|i||||,  III  IIm||i|ii|i  llitil  \\,<  nili  mil  II  iliii  Illlll-,  lull  liy 
Hilllill  plhiMin',  III  It  ii|iiiH  nnin,  •,!l»'linllif^lillif>,  i-niillliin,  |iiiillv 
llip,  mill  ll|iililllii|i  III  till-  illiiivi-  |i|i-'iiiiliiir-iil  I  liiivi'  tiiciilv.  (i( 
Ml  Inl'il  |illlli  l|iilll  ,  Illlll  llril  ll|iit||  llii-  IIimI,  iIIhI  (lit  liiil  |i^i-|  ill 
|i|r«i»<lll  III  >l  |iM>ii||nM  III  i-llli-l  ll|iii||  (III  i'y|iM>illliili  iil  llir  nllu-f 
Illlll  liliilr  liii|iniliiil  III  lllriii-  |r>iil|lli"i  \iiil  rwii  limn  |||i< 
Nlitllil|iiiltll  III  llili'llr-il  I  liiivt'  illllll  wllli  Wliiliiiiin  ii.'iliMiillv  III 
llir  liiii'il  'itl|i'illi  till  liiiililiJ'l, 


If  we  were  asked  for  justification  of  the  high  estimate  of  this  poet,  which 
has  Iieen  implied,  if  not  expressed,  in  wlial  has  been  hitherto  said,  the  answer 
would  be  peihaps  first,  that  he  has  a  power  of  passionate  expression,  of  strong 
and  simple  utterance  cf  the  deepest  tones  of  grief,  which  is  almost  or  alto- 
gether without  its  counterpart  in  the  world. 

Shelley's  skylark  pours  forth  a  harmonious  madness  of  joy,  Keals'  night- 
ingale seems  to  be  intoxicated  with  passionate  yearning ;  but  never  before  has 
a  bird  poured  forth  to  a  poet  a  song  so  capable  of  stirring  the  depths  of  emo- 
tion in  the  heart,  so  heart-breaking  indeed  in  its  intensity  of'  grief,  as  that  of 
the  lone  singer  "on  the  prong  of  a  moss-scolloped  stake,  down  almost  among 
the  slapping  waves." 

In  religion,  if  he  is  to  be  labelled  with  a  name,  it  must  be  perhaps  "  Pan- 
theist ;  "  he  is  an  exponent  of  "  Cosmic  Emotion." 

There  is  indeed  something  in  this  tearing  away  of  veils  which,  however  justly 
it  may  offend  true  modesty,  is  to  unhealthiness  and  piuriency  as  sunlight  and 
the  open  air;  they  shrink  from  the  exposure,  and  shiver  at  the  healthy  fresh- 
ness; it  is  not  an  atmosphere  in  which  they  can  long  survive  :  mystery  is  the 
region  in  which  they  thrive,  and  here  all  mystery  is  rudely  laid  bare. 

T?ut  underlying  all,  so  far  as  he  himself  is  concerned,  is  a  sympathy  em- 
bracing all  human  beings,  however  vile,  and  all  animals  and  plants,  however 
irresponsive.  It  is  this  which  leads  him  at  times  to  emphasize  his  own  sensu- 
ality, that  he  may  inake  himself  the  eepial  of  the  most  depr.ived,  to  draw  them 
if  it  may  be  in  the  bonds  of  sympathy  to  himself.  It  is  this  which  is  the  open 
secret  of  that  magnetic  influence  which  he  is  said  to  exercise  over  those  whom 
he  casually  meets.  It  was  this  which  led  him  to  the  hospitals  rather  than  to 
the  field  of  b.itlle,  and  makes  him  recall  in  memory  now  the  experiences  of 
the  "  Dresser,"  rather  than  the  great  battles  and  sieges  at  which  he  was  present. 

It  is  as  if  he  were  the  born  poet  of  emancipation,  tender  to  all  suffering 
persons,  yet  with  nerve  strong  enough  to  endure  without  fainting  orshiieking 
the  stroke  of  necessary  surgery. 

G.  C.  Macaulay:  "Walt  Whitmaii." 


(296) 


ROLND  TABLE  WITH   WALT  WHITMAN. 


By  HORACE  L.    TRAUBEL. 


[A  number  of  Walt  Whitman's  friends  celebrated  his  seventy-second  birth- 
day by  a  dinner  at  his  own  home  in  Camden,  N.  J.,  May  31,  1891.  When 
the  guests  were  assembled  Whitman  himself  came  down-stairs  and  o[)tned 
the  proceedings  as  indicated.  In  fact,  though  Dr.  Brinton  was  official  toasi- 
masler.  Whitman,  as  the  course  of  the  conversation  shows,  himself  in  effect 
assumed  the  head  of  the  table.  He  was  in  bad  physical  condition — had  spent 
a  bad  day — and  we  were  almost  compelled  to  carry  him  from  his  bed-room  to 
the  parlor  where  the  table  was  spread.  He  sat  next  to  Mrs.  Thomas  H. 
Harned,  who  plied  hirn  with  champagne,  which  I  had  had  prepared  for  him, 
and  which  he  immediately  asked  for,  whereby  he  was  at  once  built  up. 

At  table :  Walt  Whitman,  Charlotte  Porter,  Anne  Montgomerie  Traubel, 
Augusta  A,  Harned,  Hel;n  Clarke,  Hertha  Johnston,  D.  G.  Brinton,  II.  L. 
Bonsall,  Thomas  B.  Harned,  Francis  Howard  Williams,  Horace  L.  Trauijel, 
Harrison  S.  Morris,  Talcott  Williams,  John  H.  Cliflord,  H.  D.  Bush,  W\  H. 
Neidlinger,  Henry  C.  Walsh,  J.  D.  Law,  R.  M.  Bucke,  Thomas  Donaldson, 
William  O'Donovan,  Thomas  Eakins,  Fred  L.  May,  David  McKay^ 
Lincoln  L.  Eyre,  J.  K.  Mitchell,  William  Reeder,  Daniel  Longaker, 
Geoffrey  Buckwalter,  William  Ingram,  Carl  Edelheim,  G.  W.  Black,  Warren 
Fritzinger.  The  conversation  about  the  table  as  here  reproduced  is  made  up 
from  the  direct  work  of  a  stenographer  and  liberal  notes  kept  by  the  writer.] 

Whitman. — After  welcoming  you  deeply  and  specifically  to 
my  board,  dear  friends,  it  seems  to  me  I  feel  first  to  say  a  word 
for  the  mighty  comrades  that  have  not  long  ago  passed  away — 
Bryant,  Emerson,  Longfellow  ;  and  I  drink  a  reverent  honor  and 
memory  to  them.  \^Liftitig  his  glass  of  champagne  to  his  lips.'\ 
And  I  feel  to  add  a  word  to  Whittier,  who  is  living  with  us — a 
noble  old  man  ;  and  another  word  to  the  boss  of  us  all — Tenny- 
son, who  is  also  with  us  yet.  I  take  this  occasion  to  drink  niy 
reverence  for  those  that  have  passed,  and  compliments  for  the 
two  great  masters  left,  and  all  that  they  stand  for  and  represents 

(297) 


\ 


'; 


I) 

i  * 


w. 


'ill 


21)8 


m  RK   WALT   WniTHAX. 


lUit  I  won't  keep  you  any  longer  ftoin  your  soup.  [  7hmM 
/>(tssrs  »/  </  ifipy  of  Dr.  Johuston's  Notes  of  a  Visii  to  Whiifnan — 
i'lc^i^ttntly  round,  illui.ttatt\iS\  Say,  you  fellows  wlio  dabble  in  the 
rivulets  ami  bigger  streams  of  literature— there  is  a  splendid 
lesson  that  s.nh  notes  as  these  of  Dr.  Johnston  teai  h.  It  is  the 
same  lesson  that  there  is  in  the  play  ot"  "  I'ho  Diplomatic 
Secret."  At  the  end  of  that  interesting  play,  which  I  have  seen, 
a  gre<it  fellow  who  is  in  pursuit  v)f  it  comes  in  crying:  "At 
last  I  have  found  it  —  I  have  found  the  great  secret  I  i'he  great 
secret  is  that  there  is  i\o  secret  at  all !  "  That  is  the  secret.  The 
irick  of  literary  style !  I  almost  wonder  if  it  is  not  chielly 
having  no  style  at  all.  And  Dr.  Johnston  has  struck  it  here  in 
his  notes.  A  man  might  give  his  fame  for  such  a  secret.  [75' 
7;v?;/^f'/J. — Is  pretty  nmcli  everybody  here?  What  has  become 
of  Stoddari  ?  Who  will  play  his  part  fv)r  Inm?  And  Hawthorne 
— wasn't  he  expected  ? 

IrouM. —  The  table  is  about  full.  Stoddart  and  Hawthorne 
bave  not  come.      How  does  the  champagne  go? 

U'/if/m<w. — To  the  right  spot — it  goes  ihroiigh  m<\  stirs  me 
all  up,  gives  me  a  show  of  strength.  Ntrs.  Harned  keeps  me 
round  with  the  notch.  And  is  Anne  come  ?  Oh  !  yes — I  see 
— down  there  by  C'lilVord.  Well — well — this  is  a  good  lamily, 
sure  ctKHigh. 

Trauhel. — You  will  stay  then — you  will  not  leave  when  the 
lilteen  minutes  arc  np? 

]Vhit*nan. — Divl  I  say  fifteen  ?  I  feel  to  show  myself — jvrhaps 
say  a  word — let  the  rest  take  care  of  itself. 

Tiauhrl. — Ingersoll  telegraphs — he  cannot  come — he  lectures 
to-night  in  Chicago. 

\Vhitm<\n.  — I  .ectures  ? 

Tuvibrl — t)i\  Shaksiwrc. 

Whitman  \T.au)(hin\^\ — Next  to  Camden,  Chicago  is  the 
luckiest  city  on  the  jilanet  to-night  ! 

Trauhfl. — Vou  (latter  the  Colonel. 

Whitman. — He  should  be  here.  And  yet  wherever  he  goes, 
he  is  our  justification.  ...  It  is  to  the  credit  of  our  land  and 
time,  that  a  man  so  courageous,  unconventional,  spontaneous, 


is  ihe 


Jiorxn  TAnrR  nirn  wAr.r  wnrrxrAif.  ^qg 

should  he  follownl  alunil  by  mullituiles.  Do  I  stretch  the  truth 
whcu  I  say  tliiit  ? 

Traubei — I  guess  not. 

Whitman. — It  is  quite  the  right  thii\g  to  call  him  useless 
or  flippant,  but  the  stream  runs  far  deeper  than  ail  that — far 
deeper. 

Trauhfl. — \Vc  can't  shake  olT  the  giant  by  a  shrug  of  the 
shoulders. 

Whittuivi. — Nor  ran  we.  I  say  to  such  men,  welcome  !  wel- 
come 1 — 1  say  to  Ingersoll.  welcome!  welcome  I  .  .  .  And  now 
that  I  am  here  myself  1  can't  get  rid  of  the  feeling  that  John 
Hurroughs,  instead  of  sleeping  on  his  farm  to-night,  should  be 
right  here  with  us !  Hut  no  matter.  Itucke  is  here,  and  yott, 
Hrinton  {iuniiii^  to  his  hft\  and  Harry  Honsall— and  I  see  Tom, 
too,  and  mnrc'n  enough  to  play  out  the  bill.  Mut  here's  Hrinton 
on  his  feet.  [.<//(7/r/.]  And  what  is  it  now,  doctor?  \^Atui in  a 
/<7(>  7'(>itr  ,is /ifinton  sttifteii.]  I'd  give  a  lot  to  have  all  the 
English  fellows  here  this  minute  ! 

/{rinti'H. — As  we  are  now  supplied  with  what  was  necessary 
earlier  in  the  repast  for  \is  to  respond  appropriately  to  the  toast 
of  our  distinguished  friend,  I  now  olTer  the  health  of  Wait 
Whitman  on  this,  his  birthday,  with  the  hope  that  he  may 
live  to  meet  us  here  on  the  recurrence  of  this  anniversary  for 
many  years  to  come. 

Whiffthin  [.'/j  they  lirifd'], — 1  thank  you  all,  tny  friends. 
Don't  lay  it  on  too  thick.  \^J\insf—fiooii of  trnhuka  and  ques- 
tiom.'\  We  have  a  word  from  Tennyson  himself — a  very  short 
but  wonderfully  sweet  and  affectionate  word.  And  we  have  a 
word  from  Addington  Symonds.  whom  you  all  know  well 
enough.  As  for  me.  I  think  his  word  not  young  enough  to  be 
fiery,  and  not  old  enough  to  have  lost  the  pulse.  Hut  a  wonder- 
ful man  is  Adtlington  Symonds — someways  t!ie  most  indicative 
and  penetrating  and  signifuant  man  of  our  times;  tome  very 
valuable  because  he  has  thoroughly  absorbed  not  oidy  the  old 
Clreek  cultus— all  that  it  stand ^  for,  which  is  indescribably 
expansive — but  the  modern  Italianism.  And  we  have  a  graphic 
and  beautiful  letter  from  Moncure  Conway — a  very  tnany-sided 


300 


/iV  RE  WALT  wrnrH.iy. 


and  a  very  cxj)criencc<l  man — a  queer  kind  of  fellow,  a  thorongh 
Londoner  and  Kmopeaner,  so  to  sjwak ;  an  Asiatieer,  too,  for 
he  went  off  sonu-  )cars  ago  to  Asia  and  had  two  years  in  Cah  ulta 
and  other  Asiatic  cities.  And  we  have  otliers.  We  have  word 
from  a  chister  of  Englishmen  in  Lancashire,  noble  young 
fellows,  wonderfully  American,  cute,  progressive,  they  who  sent 
us  a  short  cable  aboiit  two  hours  ago.  ["/''•'»  •^'^>/'">(t^<',  /<>y  /  "] 
And  we  have  others.  And  I  do  not  know,  Horace,  — or  you, 
Professor — that  you  could  do  better  than  give  us  a  taste  of 
these  messages — [L(jt/g;/ttni;;/v]     Not  too  long  ! 

Brinfon  \Lfttfri}}hav<i\. — I  beijin  witli  the  words  of  him  whom 
our  host  has  referred  to  as  "  the  boss." 

Whitman. — The  boss  of  us  all  ! 

7\unysou. — "  All  hcafth  and  hapijiness  to  you  on  your  birth- 
day and  henceforward  !  " 

Whitman. — Very  short,  very  sweet  !  No  flummery,  no  ad- 
juncts, nothing  but  the  heart  and  grip  of  the  matter — good  will.* 
\Sif'S  his  i:;lass  to  the  ioast.^  Hut  after  all  is  sai<l,  I  turn  every- 
•'^''JfiAL^ltl' .^.9  ^'^^  emotional,  and  out  of  that  I  myself,  the  actual 
personal  identity  lor  my  own  special  lime,  have  uttered  what  I 
have  uttered.  To  me,  as  I  have  .said,  back  of  everything  that  is 
very  grand  and  very  erudite  and  very  scientific  and  very  every- 
thing that  is  splendid  in  our  era,  is  the  simple  individual  critter, 
personality,  if  you  please — his  emotionality,  supreme  emotion- 
ality. .  .  .  Through  that  personality  I  have  myself  spoken, 
reiterated.  That  is  beliind  "  Leaves  of  Grass."  It  is  the 
utterance  of  personality  after — carefully  remember — aflcr  being 
all  surcharged  witli  those  other  elements.  Hut  go  on,  Professor. 
1  dc)  not  know  how  I  have  been  led  to  speak  so  much. 

Brinton. — As  Mr.  Whitman  has  referred  to  .Symonds,  I  will 
read  you  what  he  says. 

Symonds. — '*  Speaking  about  Walt  Whitman  has  always  seemed 
to  niP  nnich  the  same  as  talking  about  the  universe.  You  know 
what  WhiMnan  himself  said  of  M(//; 


*J^imes  Kiisscll  T.owell  sent  his  "  felicitation's  .nnd  gooil  wishes"  in  almost 
as  brief  phiase,  .md  sweet  .ilso,  witliin  the  few  foiU)wing  days, 


ROUSl)    VAHLK   WlTIt    WALT    WHITMAS, 

"  '  I  heard  what  was  said  of  the  Universe, 

Heard  it  and  heard  it  for  several  thnusnnd  years ; 

It  is  iniddlin(r  well  as  far  as  it  goes, — Hut  is  that  nil? ' 


3«t 


When  I  read  panegyrics  or  crilirisins  of  Walt  Whitman  these 
words  always  io(  tn-  to  my  memory,  '  It  is  miiidliiif^  well  as  far  as 
it  goes, — Hilt  is  tliat  all  ?  '  My  own  hel])lessiu  ss  brings  the  truth 
of  these  words  home  to  me  with  overpowering  eflVct,  whenever  I 
attempt  to  express  what  I  feel  about  him.  in  order  to  estimate, 
to  interpret,  to  account  for  a  hero,  it  is  necessary  to  be  the  hero's 
peer,  or  at  least  his  comrade.  Only  a  I'lato  penetrates  the  s|)liere 
of  IMato  ;  only  a  Dante  dives  into  the  depths  of  Dante's  soul.  In 
the  case  of  the  illustrious  dead,  this  lack  of  comprehending  the 
hero's  aim,  and  of  interpreting  his  prophecy,  is  notsocommonas 
in  the  case  of  the  illustrious  living.  IJy  the  mere  fact  of  having 
survived  suc(  essive  <  entiiries,  of  having  been  absorbed  into  the 
best  thoughts  of  the  best  intellects  througli  many  generations,  a 
Plato,  a  Dant6,  a  Shaks|)ere,  bc(  omes  in  some  sort  measurable, 
and  ac(piires  a  certain  ponderable  quantity.  We  classify  the  fixed 
stars  according  to  their  magnitude.  I3ut  when  'a  new  planet 
swims  into  our  ken,'  when  an  effulgent  comet  streams  across  the 
firmament,  unca'alogued  by  previous  astronomers,  then  it  behooves 
tis  to  observe,  suspend  our  judgment,  study  the  law  of  th^  ',Llestial 
wonder.  This  is  no  less  true  when  we  meet  a  moral  and  mental 
influence  like  Whitman's.  Incommensurable,  all-embracing,  all- 
pervasive  ;  exhilarating,  elusive  ;  alluring,  baffling  ;  defying 
analysis,  refusing  to  be  classified.  Whitman's  genius  cannot  be 
gauged,  cannot  be  grasped,  cannot  be  adequately  presented  to 
the  world  by  any  literary  process  during  his  own  lifetime.  Mis 
contemporaries  must  be  satisfied  with  responding  to  his  magic, 
assiniilating  his  doctrine,  thrilling  beneath  his  magnetism.  They 
dare  not  attempt  to  define  or  elucidate  him.  Only,  by  saturating 
their  minds  with  him,  they  will  prepare  the  soil  for  future  growths 
of  criticism.  Let  us  live  and  think  and  act  in  Whitman's  spirit 
— to  the  best  of  our  ability — accoriling  to  the  measure  which  is 
granted  us  of  understanding  him — by  the  light  which  each  one 
has  derived  from  him.  Doing  so,  we  shall  help  to  just  and  sane 
views  of  our  Master  as  man,  as  poet,  and  as  prophet.     Inipercej*- 


302 


IN  RE   WALT   WHITMAN. 


tibly  his  influence  will  be  felt  through  what  we  say  and  do.  But 
let  us  not  pretend  to  measure  and  interpret  him.  The  bow  of 
Ulysses  proved  too  strong  for  all  the  suitors  of  Penelope  :  not  a 
man  of  them  could  bend  it.  Even  so  the  critique  of  Whitman 
lies  beyond  the  scope  of  any  living  student.  His  panegyric — 
even  when  poured  forth  by  an  Ingersoll — is  '  middling  good  as 
far  as  it  goes, — But  is  that  all  ?  '  " 

Whitman. — I  like  Symonds.  One  significant  point  of  all  first- 
class  men  is  caution.  Let  us  accept ;  let  us  whack  away ;  let  us 
absorb;  but  don' t  let  us  be  carried  away.  I  like  that.  It  is  my 
own  spirit,  my  own  feeling — to  accept  and  try  and  listen,  and 
don't  be  too  quick  to  reject,  and  don't  bother  about  its  not  agree- 
ing with  this,  that  or  the  other.  But  also,  don't  accept  too 
quickly.  Symonds  is  a  curious  fellow.  He  is  about  fifty  years 
of  age.  He  is  pretty  rich,  or  was  originally;  lived  in  Bristol, 
England  ;  had  consumption  ;  was  diseased  deeply  with  consump- 
tion. And  so  the  doctors — with  his  wealth  and  everything — told 
him  that  it  was  pretty  skittish  business — that  he  was  liable  at  any 
moment  to  be  squelched  out ;  so  he,  himself,  finally,  with  his 
ten  thousand  pounds  and  so  forth,  went  off  to  Switzerland,  where 
he  settled  about  twelve  years  ago.  He  had  some  money,  as  I 
said — not  so  dreadful,  but  still  some.  He  had  a  wife.  He  had 
three  or  four  children — three  or  four  daughters — splendid  girls. 
I  have  their  pictures,  they  are  up  there.  \^Thru sting  his  thumb  to- 
ward the  mantelpiece. '\  He  sent  them  to  me.  I  have  never  seen 
him,  of  course,  for  he  has  never  been  in  this  country  and  I  have 
never  been  there.  He  has  written  me  many  times — I  suppose 
twenty  times.  I  love  him  dearly.  He  is  of  college  breed  and 
education — horribly  literary  and  suspicious,  and  enjoys  things. 
A  great  fellow  for  delving  into  persons  and  into  the  concrete, 
and  even  into  the  physiological,  the  gastric — and  wonderfully 
cute.  And  there  he  lives.  He  has  built  himself  a  handsome 
house.  He  has  a  good  wife,  I  guess ;  has  splendid  daughters  ; 
and  there  in  Switzerland,  in  this  Davos  Platz,  he  lives — once  in  a 
while  going  to  London,  to  England.  About  every  three  months 
he  writes  me,  O  the  most  beautiful,  splendid  letters;  I  dare 
not  show  them  to  any  one  hardly,  they  are  so  like  those  tSte-a- 


tet 

thi 
Sy 


ROUND    TABLE   WITH   WALT   WHITMAN. 


303 


tfite  interviews  with  your  chum,  your  mate,  your  comrade  who 
throws  off  everything — and  that  is  the  kind  of  fellow  Addington 
Symonds  is.  (Warry — go  up  and  get  the  picture  from  my  mantel- 
piece.) He  has  sent  me  a  good  picture  taken  in  Switzerland, 
and  L  want  to  show  you  \vh  t  kind  of  a  person  he  is.  I  have,  I 
suppose,  a  dozen  photos.  I  had  an  idea  that  we  in  America 
made  the  finest  photos  on  earth,  but  after  seeing  those  Swiss 
samples,  and  some  others,  I  have  changed  my  mind.  And  it's 
not  the  first  time  I  have  had  to  change  my  mind.  ...  I 
doubt  if  any  one  realizes  the  value  and  depth  and  grandeur  of 
first-class  photos.  I  think  they  penetrate  somewhere  all  art  from 
five-hundred  years  ago  down. 

Brintoii. — Suppose  I  go  on  with  the  letters?  We  ought  to 
hear  Roden  Noel. 

Voices. — Yes,  Noel — Noel !    . 

Whitman. — Sure  enough — no  one  must  be  omitted — slighted 
— all  are  evened  up  here  ! 

Roden  Noel. — "  I  seem  to  have  been  left  out  of  the  list  of  your 
English  friends.  Still,  I  have  always  been  a  friend.  I  have 
always  said  I  want  to  go  to  America  to  see  Walt  Whitman  and 
Niagara . "     \^A  slight  pause.  ] 

Harned. — Walt,  tell  us  more  about  Roden  Noel. 
Whitman. — I  don't  know  much  about  him.  I  know  he  is  a 
good  friend  of  mine,  and  believes  (and  it  is  a  great  feather  in  his 
cap !)  in  "Leaves  of  Grass."  The  beauty  of  all  this  business  is, 
that  here  are  a  lot  of  the  best  fellows  away  off  in  Switzerland  or 
somewhere,  or  London  and  somewhere,  who  have  not  the  least 
idea  that  they  are  being  talked  about,  toasted,  loved — Noel,  for 
one,  and  Addington  Symonds  among  the  rest.  I  must  always  swear 
to  Symonds — he  is  so  noble,  so  true.  [Symonds^  picture  found 
and  meanwhile  passed  around.']  The  best  thing  about  Symonils 
is  his  splendid  aspiration.  Ho  wished  to  do  something — he 
wished  to  do  good.  He  was  quite  willing  to  leap  into  the  gulf. 
He  wished  to  do  something.  He  wrote  and  wrote.  He  was  very 
reticent.  He  was  afraid  of  saying  too  much.  He  was  afraid  of 
going  into  anything  too  strongly  and  wanted  to  hedge.  He  was- 
always  anxious  to  make  conditions  and  all  that  kind  of  thing. 


|P^  ji\  UK  ]yALr  whitman. 

But  he  is  essentially  the  most  splendid  person  thiit  England  has 
produced.  He  was  thoroughly  critical,  to  begin  with ;  very 
cute  ;  very  penetrative  ;  very  Greek — thoroughly  Greek  ;  thor- 
oughly Italian.  We  don't  realize  what  that  word  "  Italian,"  in 
its  best  sense,  means — but  he  was  Italian  and  is  Italian,  and  he  is 
now  a  little  blue.  He  thinks  he  is  on  his  last  legs,  and  it  nny 
possibly  be  that  it  is  so.  But  he  thinks  deeply,  like  perhaps  some 
others — he  thinks  almost  too  much  of  it,  and  he  thinks  he  has 
decrepitude  and  failure  and  that  the  last  has  arrived.  I  consider 
it  one  of  the  greatest  successes,  triumphs,  feats  I  have  achieved 
that  for  twenty  years  he  has  been  a  student  of  "  Leaves  of 
Grass" — that  I  have  his  approbation  and  good  will.  The 
finale  is,  not  details,  not  reasons  why,  or  what  has  been,  but, 
as  in  Tennyson's  short  sweet  letter — in  Symonds' — that  he  can 
say,  God  bless  you,  and  good  will  to  you,  and  success  to  you, 
and,  I  thoroughly  endorse  you,  without  detailing  reasons  why. 
\_W.  turns,  calls  for  words  from  absent  friends — "Z«'  them 
speak  !'"\ 

Dowdcn. — "Among  the  many  congratulations  I  hope  Walt 
Whitman  will  accept  mine.  I  wish  you  better  health,  'f  that  may 
be,  but  in  any  case  we  have  the  happiness  o.'"  knowing  that  you 
are  sane  in  heart  and  head,  and  that  you  must  feel  how  your  best 
self  is  abroad  in  the  world  and  active  for  good.  I  give  you  my 
reverence !  " 

Whitman. — Always  the  faithful  Dowden  !  It  is  a  good  hand 
across  the  sea.  We  all  join  hands  to-night !  In  the  old  world 
Dowden  and  Noel  have  their  places — Dowden  especially  ranking 
high  up.  .  .  .  Noel  has  written  a  book — essays,  what  not — and 
in  that  he  takes  up  the  puzzle  of  "  Leaves  of  Grass."  Some  of 
my  friends  do  not  think  it  goes  very  deep  into  the  matter — I 
don't  know  that  it  does — but  I  myself  feel  that  he  has  struck  a 
true  note,  which  is  the  main  thing,  after  all. 

Burroughs, — "  Walt,  I  keep  your  birthday  pruning  my  vineyard 
and  in  reading  an  hour  from  your  poems  under  my  fig  tree.  I 
will  let  you  eat  your  dinner  in  peace,  as  I  shall  want  to  do  if  I 
ever  reach  my  7 2d." 

Whitman  \_Leaning  towards  Traubel^. — The  only  trouble  with 


, 


ROUND   TABLE   WITH   WALT   WHITMAN. 


305 


John  is,  he  has  a  bit  of  a  suspicion  of  us  all — thinks  I  must  have 
fallen  in  bad  company  \_laught\^'] — the  Colonel  and  you  and 
Bucke,  .  .  .  and  yet  John,  of  all  men,  ought  to  be  right  here  to- 
night. .  .  .  Well,  well,  here's  love  to  John  forever  \_sipping  his 
champagne\. 

Dana. — "Health  and  long  life  I  No  man  is  so  happy  as  he 
who  has  more  friends  to-day  than  he  had  yesterday." 

Whitman, — Merry  for  Dana!  His  hand,  too  !  .  .  .  and  now, 
don't  forget  Forman,  Horace — there's  a  love  you  from  him, 
too! 

Fortnan. — "  I  look  towards  the  sea,  and  see  you  sitting  calmly 
over  there  with  your  face  turned  to  the  light.  Be  not  in  haste  to 
climb,  dear  Walt  Whitman.  Sit  there  still,  '  calm  and  supercili- 
ous' (your  own  words),  and  receive  for  many  years  yet  the  ex- 
pressions of  our  love  for  yourself,  our  respect  for  your  life,  and 
our  deep  thankfulness  for  the  solid  spiritual  aid  we  have  received, 
and  expect  still  to  receive,  from  the  inexhaustible  treasury  of  your 
Book." 

Whitman. — Buxton  Forman  is  a  Shelley ite  of  great  repute. 
How  strange  that  Shelley  and   "Leaves  of  Grass"  should  play 
upon  him  together !     How  is  it  to  be  accounted  for?     But  what 
is  this  you  tell  me,  Horace — a  poem  from  Ernest  Rhys? 
Rhys. — "  To-day,  oh  poet,  at  your  birthday  board 
Sit  many  viewless  guests,  who  cross  the  seas, 
(Their  talisman,  imagination's  spell !) 
Ambassadors  of  many  lands  and  tongues,  1  ' 

Who  come  to  hear  your  voice,  to  hold  your  hand 
And  wish  you  health,  once  more  upon  the  ear.i.. 
And  break  the  birthday  bread  of  love  once  more ! 
(So  viewlessly,  across  the  foreign  seas, 
Your  songs  went  out  erewhile,  the  welcome  guests, 
At  hearth  and  board  that  you  have  never  seen.) 
Among  your  viewless  guests,  who  come  to-day,  dear  host. 
To  break  the  birthday  bread,  count  with  them  Ernest  Rhys." 
Whitman. — There  is  Conway's  greeting  too :  let  us  have  Mon- 
cure  Conway's  !     The  whole  of  it !  - 

Conway. — "  I  am  happy  to  find  that  Walt  Whitman  has  beside 
ao 


i 


\o1\ 


i\  ^'^   H.u.r  \\nn-VA\. 


\\\\\\  rtppn't  liiiivp  fritnih  wim  \\\v[\\\  In  n-lilnnU'  hit  liiiilnlrtv,  mwl 
I  (ruM  IIh*v  will  Itiivc  lUiinv  n\uU  wnwnUwn  in  niliiii>.  In  wiitiiiH 
lh««  '  I, ill'  of 'rhom:u  l'itii\i','  now  \u  .\\\\-  i  niuplfii-il,  I  huvp  fome 
rtr»o<<>«  mitiw  |>iv<'::\m"«  mill  |Mifn\M  in  ihf  wtitinuM  of  lli;il  irvoln 
lionniv  i,>n;\k('i  wliii  h  srmi  lu  |iiii|t|)i'^\  the  ;)|i|i(;n,nir(' ii(  n  pni'i 
ol  tl«'mi»rinrv,  n\u\  WW  rnllllltMl  iit  NN'nli  Uliinnnn.  I  ln'licvi'  \\\M 
(liinoi  imv  h\\%  lU'Vi'r  hiiil  «(»  line  n  ilcnini  i;((  sim  c  I'uinc'H  lintc, 
mul  li;tn  ih'v«M  li!<il  tinv  pnrl  Ml  ,ill  ixtrpi  Wall  \Vliilin;in  lltntv 
TliiMtMn,  I  ti'inrniliri,  i  .\lli'il  \\'i\\\  '  \hr  nicilcs'  ilcnnti  inl  llii' 
wmlil  v\v\  «;!«  '  It  h;H  Imiii  n>\  plrwnn'  in  niiinv  vi'M<«ol  tt"<i 
lU'nrt'  in  Mnnliunl  lo  n  niiuk  tin-  in<|iit'ssii)n  ntmlc  liv  ltl«  pi»tMH'< 
on  «on\o  o[  dh'  lini"*i  inlrllfrU  in  il»iU  ronniiv.  Willimn  Kiw- 
^rlti  mMil  lo  \nr,  '  Whiini.in'!*  "  lr;ivi'«  nl  (Jii^ss"  in  ihf  l;n(.Ms| 
thin;i  ilitnr  in  oni  lin\t\'  S^vin^nlnl•'^  pnrni  miMh'stiI  lo  '  Wait 
Wliiiniin  in  Aninirrt'  is  tuMilv  ll\c  I'twi  il\infi  Ihmmci- wniU*.  iinti 
hiMvill  \\i'\v\  \vtil^>;n^vllun^  \voril\  irailinn  t\fiM\\  his  lilt*  Imsmnip 
onl.  I  :(lvv\vs  tvnuMnlc'i  wilh  dtli^lii  tl\i'  ilav  wlirn  Mnnn^iitn 
|i>a\ii(l  nil'  Wah's  lii'^l  book,  I'lfsli  linni  tlic  pn"<'<.  ;\ni|  saiil.  '  Ni» 
\\\w\  \\\\\\  rvi"<  in  his  \\vm\  » nn  liul  lo  in  o^ni/c  a  lute  port  in  ihiil 
liooK.'  Al  r'nicrson's  nMpirsi  \  ihIIimI  on  Wall  in  ihr  lar  pati  of 
Umol'lvn.  and  I  hrhi-vc  he  lnhl  uw  I  was  ihc  rii-il  lilnaiv  man 
who  had  oviM  ralh'il  on  him.  \l  anv  lalc  I  shall  ahvavs  t  laiin 
lo  ha\o  horn  his  rohimhns.  (hScis  ma v  have  ilist  ovcinl  him 
(iisi  in  a  (lisianl  «av,  hnl  I  sailrtl  I  ho  ocean  lulwi  :>n  Now  N'oik 
anil  Uiooklvn  aiul  saw  him.  ami  saw  his  hoailv  ami  kimllv  ohl 
molhoi,  whoso  Moiiilo  litre  (tnd  gonlloovos  1  do  not  joifiot.  Saluta- 
tions to  Walt  Whitman  iVoin  his  liicnd  ol  ovoilhiilv  I  hi  oo  voais." 

7^itnM.  \  havo  lu  ro  somothin^  liom  hi.  lohiislon  whiih 
nMiilon  OS  (.'oiuvav. 

if'hYm,tH. — What  is  that,  lloiaro?  lot  lis  heat  — what  doos 
tho  Oootof  say? 

7hihf<fl.  Johnston  ipioirs  William  Uos^oti;  as  writing  :  "  A^ 
pv^stoiitv  to  a  loiin  disiai  o  is  lottain  to  ho  iiitv'iosiod  in  Whit- 
man, so  vom-  littlo  book  is  lottain  lo  ultain  ii  tHr  more  than 
\v\triiMii>al  ivjiv." 

W-ihUiix  -I  sec — Ui>ssotti  spoaks  of  the  Hortor's  Amotlran 
irpiMts.     Who  ran  tU>nl>t    those  topotls.  lloiaro?     Kvon  those 


Hoi'\n  niiir  wini  hi//   ir////i/i/V. 


\r>i 


liilnv,  \\\\<\ 

III  wiitiim 
invc  riniu* 
tiU  ii'Viilii- 

•  III    It    |Mlf| 

rlU'Vt'  lli.il 
lie's  liiiu', 
II     Mi'iirv 

llHIIll     lllf 

Ills  piiiinn 

ll:llll   Utw- 

li«'  liiim'Mi 

I.I   '   W;lll 

rmlc,  mill 
I'  Ikh  ijMiir 

I'.mrHiiM 
■'.liil.  '  N«» 
»Pl  ill  lll;ll 
■;lf  |>;ill  ol 
•iiiiy  mun 
■;ns  rliiiin 
I'cii'il  liiin 
\ivw  Voik 
iitilU'  old 

.     S;lll||;l 

H-  yours," 
>H    Wllirll 

I'liul  iloos 

H  :  "  A'H 
ill  Wliil- 
Mt*  llian 

inuMii-jiii 
■n  IlioHC 


wild  ilniilil  me,  (Imilil  llic   "  l.ciivrM,"   llll^lll  In  mit  Imw  siiprilily 

(III-  hill  III!  Iiiiiiillcil   his  ni.'ilciial     m  It'i  il  liiiii*lli>  ilm'H \<< 

(ii  UiisHctIi,  III-  ii  iiluiivs  iiiiinly  mill  i  niiritli'iil,  and  we  will  nil 
tnkt>  IiIm  liinid  In  iii^lii.  Mill  did  JuIiiihIihi  write  iiDlhitiK  l<ir 
lllliisrir? 

Vtiuif',/.  -H.  yt"*  I 

\\lnf»H,W.       Wi'll      Id  lis  liiuc  lliul,  Inn. 

f,<hnyfi'»  "  I  wish  II  Vfiv  liiipl'V  liiilhdiiv  In  V"ii.  "iV  'li'itr 
^iinil  nlil  I'liiiidl  Ah  /Ml' I  nliliiliiilinii  In  \oiii  liii llidilV  I'lkcliH 
I  send  ynii  u  liiili<  minvoiiii  nl  my  visit  in  vnii  in  julv  IihI,  wliirli 
t  lin|u>  Mill  will  likr.  'riiilt  vi-til  lisiillnl  liniil  iim  llliniliilrd 
Htnu's  nl  niiililiidr,  irviTcin  c  and  |'fiMninil  Invc,  and  was  llic 
c•^•llWllin^  |iiivil«'Hi'  and  ulniv  nl  iiiy  wlmU'  lilc.  ( )h,  how  I  whli 
llial  I  rniild  lit-  with  Mill  nil  vniii  liiithday  ;  In  <<it  licsldc  \mii 
in  that  drat'  nld  inoiii,  tn  hear  vnin  Invcd  vnitc  and  In  Irrl  ih(> 
watiii  ^i;is|i  nl  voiir  hand  a^aiii  !  Iliil  iiiv  lilllc  mean  walti-d 
incssrii^ri  will  spiak  In  ynii  and  iiMiiind  vnii  o|  llinsc  two  lia|i|iv 
illtys  W«'  HpPlll  Inm'thcl       days   licvtl   in  In-  Inl^nllrn      ;||mI    it   will 

loll  vnii  that  ill  sf>int  I  lun  with  vnii  a^aiii.  loviii^t  and  lilfssin^." 
W'hifmiw.      Voiy  happily  put.  hmlni.     Arc  tlu'ir  nmir  Iclirrs 
n-ady  ? 

(iilt/ilttif.  —  "  I'm  \rry  sniiy  I  live  sn  lai  away  thai  I  i  an  lie 
nt  yom-  dinner  In  Walt  W'liihnaii  mily  in  ink  and  papi  i,  I  dnii'l 
knnw  what  I  (an  add  In  express  my  ie|i(ard  and  admiialinn  Im  a 
man  wlm  has  dared  In  lie  hiiiHelf  naliye  and  iiiiallri  ted.  In  these 
liavM  ol  apparent  drill  tnwaid  i  eiiliali/.itinn  of  power,  his  doe- 
trine  of  the  Individual  comes  to  have  majeslv  like  that  nl  Ihsen's 
— mirpa'-.sinn  il,  indeed,  Inr  with  eipial  weijihl  nf  imswervi»lji{  rcso- 
liilinn  Wliilnian  has  a  mnre  lervent  liiim.inily.  He  is  i  natural 
Inyer  of  man,  and  dues  imt  fni^rel  the  wninided  and  i  ippled 
even  in  his  ninment  ol  liotlesi  warlare.  I  need  only  add  llial 
prejudice  a^nillst  our  most  Amerii  an  ol  poets  is  rapidly  passinji 
nwiiy  in  Hoston,  'There  is  very  little  of  ii  leinaining  amonj^  our 
most  thoii^hiriil  critiis.  ( )iir  papers  deal  kindly  and  wilh  re 
gard  with  his  ^real  name,  and  were  it  possible  for  him  to  i  onir 
to  llostoM  om  e  more  the  truth  of  what  I  write  would  be  made 
luuiiifest  by  deeds  nnd  wrirds  of  greeting,  by  <  lusp  of  hands  and 


|«|  M    A^-    M  (/  r    IM///I/I,V, 

Itv  Nnnllit^  li|«4.  Mi'it  unitl  woiwi'ti,  inni  Iti'^tn  m  iiiiilctNtiiiut 
iliiii  ho  ^iMitiN  lot  \\u'  ndcii^il)  ol  tvioilitiu  ititil  tttii  ilti*  wortKui'im 
ol  inunirtni  Innoti'mp.  'I'lmi  he  iiiunN  lor  m'U  hhvi'Miiiu'mi.  inr 
ii\tliMilii,\l  ilrM-litpinrnl.  lot  IiIm'|I\,  lnvr  iiml  licttiM',  Tlio  h««i» 
mill  iiiiliviilii.tl  loim  itl  litH  vi'iHC  i<«  kmi  liii<u  witlci  i  in  li'n  ul 
iVitili-K  ril«  It    \i>i«.      It    will    hiivr    iiit  .il<  iiliil>lt>  clVi'i  t   ii|tiMt   llio 

\\\\\\\V    VOIM'  iKIhl    no)     |l\    \\.\\   it|    lluillUitiM    lllll    bv   ilK    pOMTI     1(1 

«'iliii  ,»li'  ll»o  I'iU  In  IVi'i*!'  loim-*  ni\il  siilillci  thvlliiUM  Hum'  inmi' 
I  Itl.tkr  mllllli«liiilH  lit  It  ^IW.W    |iri'iii||jltlv.  It  |«<Ui'lliil  pni'l,  iiiiil  it 

Hiii'iic  |iio|ilirl  ul  It  ^liMiiMiH  Aitinii  It  iiiiil  litiihlul  Aiiti'iii  iiii  lilt'i 
itlitti'  III  mmo," 

II  ktM.iH  Citilititil  ItitN  luM'it  lii'io  lo  pirr  ttiom'Vt'iitl  llntt'n.  \\c 
i*«  I  iitiliil,  Witlitt  l\i'itlt«-il,  ItiitilmiHtiv  O  ^l'^  I  itiiiii' lliiiK  itlhliitl, 
Ion,  lot  ho  ii  itttkin)}  it  ^tntl  litiiio  lot  loiiixoir  li\   loi  Mioiirt    .  ,  . 

TltOV    loll   IWi'   Iom  ^loliOH  itIO  liollisl    itl    "  I  OltVOM  oM  llUHH,"    ttllilll 

ii  lo  sol  'I'ttt  tip  loult,  iitllitlli  I  I  A'^V^'^.V)  ""'I  vol  llion^lil  Hiinl 
(til  ovoi,  itH  Ito  nooittH  lo  lltiiik.  I  Hoo  iituiiv  It  liitlllo  nlioinl,  itH  I 
llitvo  lolil  ltt\   riii'iiil  Moi;ur   Tiitnliol  luir  o|>pnMili'  ii\o  ollrn. 

^'^^H^^.  "  M\  ;illii  liou.iio  mooiiiin^  lo  NVIiiim^iii  I  May  lio 
livo  oit  iltttoit);  iiH  lor  ittitlty  it  liitppv  toitt,  lo  illitHliitIo  llio  iitii| 
os|\  (tttti  poiti  0  ol  oM  itm',  iw  III'  li;m  illiiiliitloil  Iho  Rplomlom  ol 
lull Mooiloil  ittitiihooil  I  I  ilinik  ol  liiiti  in  lii<«  noioiio  litlioi  ilms 
itlon^  with  iho  ^i.iiioim  pii  Iiih'  oT  oIiI  ('opiiiliis,  ttttiili  I'liilo 
^i\o^  itt  llio  {'\\M  pit^jos  ol  llio  A'r /*«/*//.  onlmmjj  llio  iibnliiig 
pivsotioo  ol  iiwool  Itopo,  lltitt  '  kinil  nniio  ol  olil  11^0,'  it»  Piiuluf 
ohIIh  II.  ri\.'  loiifioi  I  livo  llio  nioio  iinpoilitnl  iIoom  llio  liiilli 
ol  W'liiuti.tn  into  llitn  tiinotoonllt  oonliti  v  nppom  lo  lio,  llo  {<* 
lot  mo  otto  ol  ill  lowjiio;!!  otuitiii  ip.ilom  IVoiii  llio  ipoiinl  dun^om 
lo  wliii  It  It  li.tH  lioiu  li.iMo  llio  jlitnuoiH  ol  liimiiv  iiiiil  iini  Iniii 
isitt.  insiiitiu  in  tli.ti  vii  I  or  ililoiianloisnt  wliirit  itl  puNcnl  iillln  \<* 
loii.un  Antoiioittt  (tn  woll  its  Mniopoitit  i  rnloin,  Tito  Jiiniir  will 
rt!«stiiv*llv  ho  giitloliil  lo  Wliiliitittt  lot  ronli  >iilinn  liii  n^to  wiili  it 
Ivp  '"  titiinhooil  lli;tl  oxhiliiloil  it  noMo  powoi.  itit  oinolionnl 
rtitiplntiilo.  it  tvligionmioss,  ;t  pltysioitl  s;tiiilv,  itml  siiMplirily  tif 
li.tltit  rtinl  Oitviijt^o,  itgitiitsl  wliii  It  llto  inllnonoo  ol  iho  littto  i  on- 
spitoti  ii^  vrtin,  I  sitv  llto  rnltiio  will  W  niitiolnl  booittiRO  I  lliink 
ili.il.  iilvo  olhoi  giojtl  soiiN,  Wliilntitit  Itifi  lioon  '  lioloio  Ins  liitto,' 


HoVNh  fififh'  wit'H  wur  WHinns, 


in«r 


niitl  iliiil  lil<«  iitlliit'iiM>  iipitii  III)' wtitlil  liiiM  liiiitllv  Ih'i'm  (i'Ii  m  yi'l. 

|l  mi7  he    It'll    lu'i  iiilMt'   lit)'    wmlil    !•«   KdIii^    In   Innvrr    iDMil    iU 

llhl|Ut|    III    ItMll   ;    illlll   IId'II    II    Mill    HMI^Ill/r   llM   lilirdtli  l|'l.        I     jltill 

'     Willi  you  It)  witliiiiH   |iiv  Id  xiii   ili'iii   liinitl  iiml   In  Iphil   «-ltU'i 
cniiiiiiittv      Iti'iilili  luiil  liit|i|iiiii"i>«  Iti  Illlll  mill  III  vmi  iill  I  " 

H'hittHiiH,        i'llllt   i>«  line  III    III!    I  liirl    ihlll^M      'i|i|||iil    hi  illl  tl|i> 

tTll,    III    \m\.  Vi'H,    WI'    III  I'll    II    lll'U     lllllllllMMll,    It    III  mIi   'illlll,    ll    Vll> 

nf(i<  III  HI',)  ;iuiilii  I     "  Iti'lmi' iiiv  Illlll' i' "     Vi'n  iiimI  III)     Illl  ilmilil 
At  till'  tiftlit  iitiiiiii'iil,  ll  lit  Illl. 

Al»^7  (  AiJ/fM*),— "  My  mUIi'I  McmmIc  iiml  I  linih  lliiiik  >Mii 
vol  V  Will  inly  lor  (Itr*  pli'irlll  VDII  m'lll  Ih  III  vnlll  liimk.  ImIwiIhI 
I'lliprllliM lonl  il  nil  In  MM  Wi'iijli'l  vnil  nill  Wtllllli'il  hH'i'IIIIKm 
mill  Im'mI  wUIh"!  Ii'I  vmii  biillnlii)'  j  wo  iii'VCI  IniHfl  ll.  UImI 
mIw.iv'i  wmli  vmi  illl  wnnil  " 

Whi/mtiM.      Vi'i  V  iwi'i'l  rtiitl  iinMi',  vn  V  iit'iii  llir  III' III  '     I    i  k 
imirll   iimii'  lliiiii  It  liltli'  il  IIIV  III  ll  liii'tiil't  liitvi'  iml  In  in  tvniiii  n 
Mv  llii'liil    Mil    ( illl  Itli'^l,  iilli'   III    lli(<   i'itllii"4l,  It   |ili  kill  tvniiiJti, 
pliiliMlltil,    itnlilr,    mil  lilli  itt^,    i^itw    ilniilv    wlirii    iiliinml    I'vri  v 
linilv    <'Ui<   WiH   ililrii'sli'il    III    iithiliK   I'l*'  *l*i'^l      nli'iilliii^   nliul 
Will  lull'. 

KfUHf.fy.  "  !  ilnii'l  knnw  lliil  tlu'  'i|iliit  iimvcM  iiii"  Ininiivny 
tn  Villi  mill  Will  III  lliii  |imlii  Illlll  Iiiih'  initi  Ii  iiiuM'  llimi  llic 
l«illl|i|t<  llmilillliil)  miliililllitll,  Alnliil  I  'j.nvi'  In  vnil.'  Tllii  t 
imiHi   miv.   Imwi'voi      llint   my  ImIIi'I   Is  miil    Inii'vii    will   In-  im. 

Nllllkcil    III    till'  llllilllillo   llilllll|lll   n|    till'    lili'.l'^   litl    wllil  ll     lllill    ^ll'lU 
llni  lliiH'liI,    '  |,i'.Ui"<  n|    (liitn'i,*   Illl'   Mllili'  n|    llir   NilllMi't'llI  ll  ('ill 
ItllV,    hIiUuIh:     tnilli,    jii'iliir,    rniiii;iili"ilii|i,    iiiilnn,    qpii  iliiilil  v. 
ItntI,  IlllltVO    itll,   llll<  mlllllilV  mill  linliililV  nl    till'  |<:l'i'<intl  n|    lnviV 

(Miilstimiily  Illlll  Wl'iliiimiimn  mo  nii^lilv  miil   iiii'mni  iliiMi'  i>|> 
iKiiili'R,  im  Iniiilicq  till'  ItiMJv       'I'lic  niic  iimclii.miti  iiiiliittili'il  ir  ; 
llio  nllici  11  |nvniii  lU  i  cplci  nl    iijiIiih'  ;   tlii<  niic  '4piiiiiiii|:  vvliil    i<t 


tl 


ic  oIIii'i'm  I  liii'i  f^lniy.      liislniiuil  ('In i'llimiily  ii  mipi'mlilimi 


Willi 


iiimiimn   is  Nririu  r.      lint    in    npiiiliiitl    iimi^lil   ('liti'ii    mul 


Whiltiiait  iii'o  f^iiiiiillv  iilikc,  linlli  Rn-iiij/  llic  u'nl  lifi*  In  lie  he 
ItituI  llir  vril  nl  m'tmi',  \'\  lirrnii<,  I  wiili'  ymi  fii'iii  llw  Mlmiiji 
linlil  111  I'niitmiiini.  Tlio  Hliaiiic  nl  llir  Hiippri'S'iiii>{  lini'  nl 
Ainciicii'N  gieaU'Nl   bnuk    Ih  Rtlll    not  wiped    out  of  cxiNtciice. 


3IO 


IN  RE   WALT  WHITMAN. 


And  here  before  me  lies  a  clipping  taken  from  a  Boston  paper 
which  describes  how  a  college  man  was  arrested  the  other  day 
for  kissing  his  wife  on  the  street !  The  Boston  Dogberry  locked 
up  both  man  and  wife  in  jail  over  night  until  it  was  proved  that 
the  woman  kissed  was  the  man's  lawful  wife.  Did  you  ever  hear 
anything  more  laughable  ?  Christian  anti-naturalism  deeply  en- 
trenched, you  see,  yet,  in  the  popular  mind.  It  will  probably 
take  a  thousand  years  or  so  for  the  new  gospel  to  supplant  the 
-effete  one.     However,  sursttm  corda  !  " 

Whitman. — All  that  will  come  to  pass,  Kennedy — all  is  to  be 
provided  for !  That  is  one  of  the  things  we  are  here  for — that 
is  why  we  have  Ingersoll,  great,  magnificent  fellow  that  he  is! 
Every  blow  he  strikes  for  liberty,  against  what  you  call  Puritanism, 
is  for  us,  this  human  critter,  the  "Leaves,"  democracy,  love  I 
But  you  know  that  as  well  as  I  do. 

A  Voice. — And  what  will  we  get  from  Donaldson? 

Whitman. — Tom  Donaldson,  cannot  we  have  a  word  from 
you  ? 

Donaldson. — Mr.  Whitman,  I  did  not  deserve  to  be  let  in.  I 
got  here  late.  But  I  had  been  suffering  this  winter  from  the 
attention  of  three  doctors,  and  after  a  while  I  found  that  by 
•quitting  the  doctors  I  might  get  well.  So  I  am  mending  now — 
shaking  off  the  rheumatism — but  pretty  slow  yet,  and  late,  there- 
fore, getting  here  to-night.  But  we  won't  say  more  of  that.  I 
want  to  talk  of  you.  I  am  not  much  given  to  personal  compli- 
ment  

Whitman. — Where  have  you  been  lately?  You  have  been 
West  and  in  Washington  ? 

Donaldson,  — Yes. 

Whitman. — Tell  us  something  about  it.  Tell  us,  too,  about 
Blaine.     We  are  curious  about  Blaine. 

Donaldson. — I  will  talk  about  a  more  opportune  subject — 
about  Walt  Whitman.  It  seems  to  me  I  have  never  seen  a  book 
or  newspaper  article  that  conveyed  to  me  the  real  individuality 
or  personality  of  Walt  Whitman. 

A  Voice. — How  about  Dr.  Bticke's  book? 

Donaldson. — Since  Dr.  Bucke's  book  was  written  I  think  the 


Joston  pap>er 
le  other  day 
berry  locked 
;  proved  that 
^ou  ever  hear 
m  deeply  en- 
nll  probably 
supplant  the 

—all  is  to  be 
ere  for — that 
that  he  is ! 
1  Puritanism, 
)cracy,  love ! 

? 

I  word  from 

be  let  in.  I 
iter  from  the 
)und  that  by 
nding  now — 
d  late,  there- 
of that.  I 
onal  compli- 

1  have  been 


3,  too,  about 

le  subject — 
seen  a  book 
ndividuality 


I  I  think  the 


BOUND   TABLE   WITU  WALT  WHITMAN. 


3" 


subject  has  grown,  so  that  Dr.  Bucke  might  write  another — a 
supplementary — book  with  profit. 

Whitman. — Is  he  speaking  of  Dr.  Bucke's  book,  Horace? 

Traubel.—Yt's,.  t 

Whitman  \_With  raised  voice\. — Tom,  Horace  says  you  are 
speaking  of  Dr.  Bucke's  book.  Look  out !  Look  out !  I 
myself  swear  by  it.  I  have  had  a  thousand  books  and  essays, 
and  Dr.  Bucke's  is  about  the  only  one  that  thoroughly  radiates 
and  depicts  and  describes  in  the  way  that  I  think  thoroughly 
delineates  me.     I  thoroughly  accept  Dr.  Bucke's  book. 

Donaldson. — So  do  L  But  I  would  like  to  know  where  in 
Dr.  Bucke's  book  is  this  incident  of  your  life  (I  am  going  to 
give  you  one  particular  instance).     Oscar  Wilde  told  me 

Whitman  [^Interrupting]. — Take  out  what  I  slice  in.  I  think 
Dr.  Bucke  has  accurately  depicted  my  own  preparatory  and  in- 
auguratory  life — say  a  certain  sixteen  to  thirty  years  on  which 
everything  else  rests:  New  York,  Brooklyn,  experimentation  in 
strange  ways,  not  such  as  usually  go  to  make  poetry  and  books 
and  grand  things,  but  the  flash  of  active  life — yes,  in  New  York, 
Brooklyn  (to  me  the  greatest  cities  in  the  universe),  and  from 
there  down  to  New  Orleans,  and  up  the  Mississippi  to  the  big 
lakes.  I  travelled  over  and  stopped  on  them  all.  Dr.  Bucke 
has  briefly,  but  thoroughly,  grasped,  gripped,  digested  all  that  I 
was  in  those  twenty  years,  better  than  anybody  else.  I  do  no*-  so 
much  dwell  upon  his  criticism  of  "Leaves  of  Grass."  I  still 
think — I  have  always  thought — that  it  escapes  me  myself,  its 
own  author,  as  to  what  it  means,  and  what  it  is  after,  and  what 
it  drifts  at.  Dr.  Bucke,  with  audacious  finger,  brain,  seems  to 
say,  "Here  is  what  it  means,"  and  "  This  is  not  what  it  means," 
and  "This  is  a  contrast  and  a  comparison,"  and  "  This  is  one  side 
and  that  is  the  other  side."  Well,  I  don't  know — I  accept  and 
consider  the  book  as  a  study.  But  behind  all  that  (which  is 
anent  of  what  I  said  fifteen  or  twenty  minutes  ago)  remains  a 
subtle  and  baffling,  a  mysterious,  personality.  My  attempt  at 
"  Leaves  of  Grass  " — my  attempt  at  my  own  expression — is  after 
all  this  :  to  thoroughly  equip,  absorb,  acquire,  from  all  quarters, 
despising  nothing,  nothing  being  too  small — no  science,  no  ob- 


\- 


312 


TAT  JiE   WALT   WHITMAN. 


servation,  no  detail — west,  east,  cities,  ruins,  the  army,  the  war 
(through  which  I  was) — and  after  all  that  consigning  everything 
to  the  personal  critter.  And  the  doctor  is  almost  the  only  one 
of  my  critics  who  seems  to  have  thoiouglily  understood  and  ap- 
preciated that  very  important  fact.  To  mc  it  is  the  personality 
of  the  business;  it  is  the  personality  of  the  American  man,  of 
the  fellow  from,  i860  to  1890 — the  forty  years,  the  wonderful 
forty  years,  the  indescribably  wonderful  forty  years  of  the  recent 
history  of  America — in  a  fellow,  in  a  man,  in  an  individuality, 
thoroughly  absorbed.  1  suppose  1  am  getting  a  little  foggy  and 
cloudy,  but  the  idea  is,  that  Doctor  Bucke  is  one  of  the  few 
who  have  thoroughly  appreciated  and  understood  and  realized 
all  that  and  has  dominated  his  book  with  it.  Most  poets,  most 
writers,  who  have  anything  to  say,  have  a  splendid  theory  and 
scheme,  and  something  tiiey  want  to  put  forth,  I,  on  the  con- 
trary, have  no  scheme,  no  theory,  no  nothing — in  a  sense  abso- 
lutely nothing. 

Donaldson. — Just  let  'er  go,  eh  ? 

Whitman. — Almost  that.  I  have  uttered  the  "  Leaves  "  for 
the  last  thirty-five  years  as  an  illustration  of,  as  an  utterance  of, 
as  a  radiation  from,  the  personal  critter — the  fellow,  man,  indi- 
viduality, person,  American,  so  to  speak.  To  me,  as  I  have 
said  over  and  over  again,  almost  tiresomely,  there  is  something 
curious,  indescribably  divine,  in  th'*  ^r.mpr>.inr^  ;nri;v;.lii.ii;fy 
thaLisJilxyexy_aU£^  It  is  behind  all,  everything — his  time,  his 
degree  of  development,  his  stage  of  development.  These  have 
been  the  main  things,  and  out  of  them  I  have  reiterated  and  re- 
iterated and  reiterated.  I  suppose  there  are  four  hundred  leaves 
of  grass,  one  after  another,  which  are  contradictory,  often  con- 
tradictory— oh  !  contradictory  as  hell — perfectly  so,  but  atill 
held  together  by  that  iron  band,  of  whatever  it  may  be — indi- 
viduality, personality,  identity,  covering  our  time,  from  fifty  to 
uinety.     That  is  me,  Tom — that  is  Dr.  Bucke's  book. 

Traubel. — But  meantime,  Donaldson,  what's  become  of  your 
Oscar  Wilde  story?     You've  forgotten  all  about  that. 

Whitman. — True  enough,  Tom  ;  Oscar  Wilde  I  Have  you 
been  standing  all  this  time? 


.: 


'^i     < 


ROUND   TAULE   WfTlI    WALT   WHITMAN. 


3'3 


( 


Donaldson. — Yes,  I  have  1  Is  it  left  for  that  young  man  to 
get  me  my  rights?  1  l»ave  it  to  all  here  if  it  was  not  your  fault, 
Mr.  Whitman,  that  my  story  didn't  even  get  started. 

Whitman. — I  own  it,  Tom.     Go  on. 

Donaldson. — Well,  the  incident  I  wish  to  recall  to  your  atten- 
tion, Mr.  Whitman,  is  this :  Of  course  you  did  not  find  Oscar 
Wilde  the  kind  of  fellow  that  some  i)eo|)le  thought  lie  was.  On 
the  contrary,  you  found  him  a  splendid  kind  of  fellow.  And  he 
says  that  not  only  are  you  a  good  poet,  but  in  that  room  up- 
stairs, in  that  front  room  of  yours,  over  your  lamp,  you  can  brew 
the  best  milk  punch  of  any  man  in  tiie  United  States.  I  am 
free  to  claim  that  no  book  has  ever  developed  that  fact,  and  yet 
it  is  greatly  to  your  credit.  Now,  I  think  the  most  memorable 
interview  I  ever  had  with  you,  out  of  many  hundred,  I  had  in 
that  little  front  room.  You  had  a  small  stove  in  the  corner  that 
looked  very  much  like  a  fruit  can,  and  you  sat  in  a  small  arm- 
chair with  a  white  robe  about  you,  and  the  stove  pipe  got  out  of 
the  hole,  and  there  was  no  draft,  and  the  fire  went  out,  and  you 
said  finally,  "  Don't  you  think  this  room  is  cold?"  and  I  said, 
"Yes,  I  do,"  and  so  we  two — Oscar  Wilde  and  me — fished 
around  together,  and  discovered  the  reason  of  the  accident, 
which  is  just  as  I  have  given  it. 

Whitman. — Good  for  you,  Tom  !     The  cat's  out  of  the  bag. 

Donaldson. — But  that  is  not  all.  I  seem  almost  to  have  made 
a  speech,  anyway,  though  I  expressly  intended  to  avoid  that. 
But  before  I  sit  down  let  me  say  I  brought  with  me  the  regrets 
of  some  friends  over  the  river — especially  of  Horace  Howard 
Furness. 

Traubcl. — And  I  have  a  letter  from  him. 
Whitman, — Let  Furness  speak  for  himself. 

Furness. — "  What  wouldn't  I  give  to  be  able  to  be  with  you  ! 
I  can  join  you  only  in  imagination.  Yet  what  imagination  is 
adequate  fairly  to  picture  Walt's  majestic  presence,  and  the  eter- 
nal sunshine  settling  on  his  head  which  illumines  us  alTby  its 
mere  reflection  ?  I  bid  him  '  take  from  my  mouth  the  wish  of 
happy  years.'  " 

Whitman. — When  you  see  him  give  him  my  love. 


/ 


.3M 


IN  RE   WALT   WHITMAN. 


Donaldson. — And  I  brought  with  me  from  an  old  gentleman 
on  the  Allegheny  river  a  bottle  of  whiskey  which  he  warrants  to 
be  fifty-four  years  old. 

Whitman. — Oh  !   noble  old  man  !     Hurrah  for  the  old  man  I 

Voices. — Bucke  !  Bucke  ! 

Bucke. — You  all  know  I  am  no  speaker 

Whitman. — But  you  can  give  a  word. 

Bucke. — If  I  could  speak  at  all  I  could  say  something  this 
evening  on  the  subject  in  hand.  Perhaps  the  most  significant 
thing  of  all  is  the  marvellous  diversity  of  opinion  about  you, 
Walt,  and  your  book. 

Whitman. — Expatiate  a  little  on  that.  Doctor;  that  is  very 
curious. 

Bucke. — Well,  some  think,  for  instance,  that  above  all  things 
you  stand  for  the  divine  pasoion  of  love,  others  that  you 
especially  voice  friendship,  others  again  that  external  nature  is 
your  central  and  supreme  theme ;  to  still  others  you  represent 
freedom,  liberty,  joyous  and  absolute  abandonment ;  again  your 
religious  sense  is  placed  at  the  head,  and  we  are  told  that  a  noble 
aspiration  for  perfect  spiritual  manhood,  supreme  assurance  of 
immortality,  intuitions  of  the  unseen,  intense  faith  in  the 
essential  friendliness  of  the  universe  to  man,  is  the  essence  of 
your  life  and  teaching.  But  the  opposite  of  all  these  is  in  you 
as  well ;  you  are  as  capable  of  hate  and  scorn  as  of  love  and 
compassion ;  imitation  and  obedience  belong  to  you  as  much 
as  their  seeming  opposites  ;  reckless  defiance  and  contempt  are, 
though  subordinated,  as  inherent  in  the  "Leav;;s"  and  in  you 
as  are  reverence  and  affection  ;  despondency  and  despair  are  as 
truly  component  parts  of  your  character  as  are  hope  and  joy ; 
common  and  even  coarse  manhood  is  as  developed  in  you  as  are 
the  glorious  ecstasy  of  the  poet  and  the  high  speculations  of  the 
philosopher  :  while  you  are  good  you  are  also  evil ;  the  godlike  in 
you  is  offset  by  passions,  instincts,  tendencies  that  unrestrained 
might  well  be  called  devilish  ;  if  on  the  whole  you  have  lived 
-well  and  done  well  yet  none  the  less  you  have  had  in  you, 
though  subordinated,  the  elements  of  a  Cenci  or  an  Attila. 
This  side  of  you  is  little  realized,  and  therefore  I  have  said  and 


BOUND   TASLE   WITH   WALT  WHITMAN. 


gentleman 
I'arrants  to 

old  man  I 


thing  this 
significant 
bout  you, 

at  is  very 

all  things 

that   you 

nature  is 

represent 

igain  your 

at  a  noble 

iirance  of 

;h    in    the 

ssence  of 

is  in  you 

love  and 

as  much 

mipt  are, 

d  in  you 

air  are  as 

and  joy ; 

^ou  as  are 

ms  of  the 

[odlike  in 

estrained 

ave  lived 

in  you, 

n  Attila. 

said  and 


3»5 


say  that  no  one  has  yet  understood  you.  Like  a  group  of  moun- 
tains passaged  by  dark  ravines  your  Titanic  qualities  (good  and 
evil)  hide  one  another,  so  that  we  who  stand  by,  beholding 
and  admiring  some  one — or  at  most  two  or  three — of  the 
majestic  summits,  or  shuddermg  on  the  edge  of  some  precipice, 
necessarily  fail  to  see  or  adequately  to  divine  the  hidden  peaks, 
and,  still  less,  the  dark  intervening  chasms.  I  do  not  believe 
that  I  or  any  of  us  realize,  Walt,  what  you  really  are.  The  main 
thing  is  that  we  love  you  and  hope  to  have  you  live  long  with  us. 

fV/ti/wan. — I  scarcely  know  whether  I  do  or  not. 

Voicss. — Bonsall  !  Bonsall ! 

IV hitman. — Yes,  Harry,  give  us  your  "views  " — give  us  your 
report. 

Bonsall. — On  my  way  here  the  train  stopped  at  Harleigh  Cem- 
etery, and  as  those  who  had  visited  the  city  of  the  dead  and 
viewed  Walt  Whitman's  tomb  entered  the  cars,  I  mused  how 
few  will  honor  the  living  bard  to-night  compared  with  the  pro- 
cession of  pilgrims  from  far  and  near  who  will  make  a  Mecca  of 
his  grave  when  he  is  no  more  !  Camden  will  be  known  to  the 
world  from  the  fact  of  one  man  living  and  dying  here,  as  Strat- 
ford, Concord,  and  the  few  shrines  that  stand  alone  and  need  no 
Westminster  or  Pantheon  in  a  proud  metropolis. 

In  our  unstudied  and  unstinted,  our  informal  and  perhaps  too 
careless,  colloquialism  this  evening  the  thought  has  been  dropped 
that,  until  we  revere  the  Man  and  greet  him  on  each  recurring 
natal  day,  we  do  not  understand,  and  cannot  comprehend,  the 
length  and  breadth  and  height  and  depth  of  the  philosophy  of 
the  Poet.  To  this,  for  one,  and  in  common  with  most  of  us,  I 
take  exception.  It  is  because  we  do  realize  what  manner  of  man 
we  honor  that  we  are  here  to-night.  It  is  because  we  have  im- 
bibed something  of  his  spirit  and  can  translate  tlie  message  spoken 
to  us  with  the  Right  Voice  that  this  responsive  echo  is  called 
forth.  It  is  because  we  know  whereof  we  speak  that  even  in  our 
most  florid  imagery  we  know  that  we  speak  the  words  of  truth 
and  soberness.  It  is  because  we  have  travelled  the  Open  Road 
with  him  here,  that  when  we  come  to  tread  the  highway  of  the 
spheres  and  step  from  constellation  to  constellation  we  shall  know 


I    I' 


,1 


3i6 


IN  RE    WALT   WIIITMAX. 


thvit  Walt  Whitman  will  cwait  us  on  a  still  higher  "  lift "  and 
extend,  as  now,  the  hand  we  will  grasp  in  courage  and  confidence 
because  of  the  light  he  shed  on  the  way  tiiilhcr. 

IVhitinan. — I  did  not  know  you  were  such  a  speechmaker^ 
Harry  !  So  you  object  to  Biickc's  argument  ?  Well,  well,  you 
are  both  right,  I  guess — though  Doctor  gets  rather  nearer  the 
nerve,  so  tf)  speak.  There's  a  point  or  two  you  fellows  could 
argue  out  together,  though  as  for  that  I  don't  suppose  argument 
would  settle  anything.  \^To  Tnjui>i'/.~\  Harry  has  kept  his  hand 
on  the  wheel  this  niany-a-day — never  weary,  never  unsteady  ! 

Williams  {F.  H.). — It  has  become,  I  had  almost  said,  a  fashion 
to  say  that  Walt  Whitman  lacks  form,  and  that  his  method  of 
expressing  himself  is  in  great  chaos  of  words.  But  I  do  not 
think  that  the  form  in  which  you  have  seen  fit  to  express  your- 
self is  a  mere  chaos  of  words.  I  do  not  think  that  the  meie 
fact  that  you  have  refused  to  be  bound  by  the  accepted  metrical 
forms,  by  the  laws  of  versification  as  they  have  been  accepted  by 
all  time,  at  all  argues  that  you  have  disregarded  form.  As  I 
heard  Mr.  Richard  Watson  Gilder  say  at  one  of  our  recent 
re-unions  :  *'  I  think  that  Walt  Wiiitnian's  form  is  one  of  the 
most  extraordinary  things  about  him.  I  believe  that  his  form 
is  inimitable."  I  believe  that  anybody  who  will  get  away  from 
the  idea  of  scanning  line  by  line  and  will  undertake  to  com|)re- 
hend  the  fundamental  thought  at  the  bottom  of "  Leaves  of 
Grass  "  and  which  runs  through  it — not  through  its  sections  but 
through  the  book  as  a  whole — will  find  that  the  form  adopted  is 
the  only  one  in  which  that  thought  could  possibly  have  been 
embodied  and  expressed.  Any  writer,  any  jioet,  who  had 
.sought  to  express  that  thought  and  had  bound  himself  by  any 
of  the  accepted  metrical  laws,  would  have  found  himself  in  the  • 
position  of  the  Irishman  who  tried  to  carry  home  a  quart  of  the 
critter  in  a  half-pint  mug — the  verse  would  not  have  held  the 
thought.  The  people  who  say  that  his  thought  is  a  chaos  have 
simply  come  across  a  cosmos  which  is  beyond  their  comprehension. 

Whitman. — I  hope  that  is  so. 

Williams, — Mr.  Gabriel  Sarrazin  has  said,  sir,  that  you  are 
not  an  artist — that  you  are  not  an  artist  because  you  rise  superior 


HOUND   TAIiLE   WITH   WALT   WHITMAN. 


317 


to  art.  I  believe  that  is  nothing  more  than  saying  that  genius 
is  a  law  unto  itself.  Art  is  an  interpretation  of  nature,  and 
•when  the  thing  to  be  expressed  transcends  the  laws  of  art,  we 
then  arrive  at  a  point  within  which  a  genius — if  there  be  such  a 
man — exists.  I  mean  without  regard  to  the  laws  of  art.  That 
is  exactly  the  idea  found  in  "  Leaves  of  Grass." 

IVhiiinan. — It  is  a  comfort  to  hear  that.  Bravo  !  .  .  .  Dr. 
Bucke  is  my  authoritative  expresser  and  explanator,  as  far  as 
there  can  be  one. 

DotuiUson. — What  about  my  hundred  pages  that  I  am  getting 
out  about  you? 

Whitman. — Go  on,  Tom,  go  on — and  God  be  with  you  ! 

Morris. — Something  has  been  said  about  the  euphony  and 
harmony  of  Mr.  Whitman's  verse.  I  think  if  Mr.  Donaldson 
had  had  the  pleasure  which  I  had  a  couple  of  weeks  ago  of  going 
to  Long  Island  and  visiting  Walt  Whitman's  birthplace,  he 
could  scarcely  say,  as  he  has  said,  that  there  was  no  euphony  and 
no  harmony  in  Walt  Whitman.  The  one  prevailing  feature 
in  all  that  country  is  that  every  door-yard — no  matter  how 
humble,  how  much  of  a  shanty — has  a  bush  of  lilac  growing. 

Donaldson. — Did  Whitman  plant  it? 

Whitman. — Tiiat  was  a  smart  dab,  Tom. 

Morris. — He  has  celebrated  it  supremely.  Another  figure 
•which  we  find  in  the  two  lyrics  of  Mr.  Whitman  is  the  hermit- 
thrush.     It  is  an  indigenous  bird  in  Long  Island. 

Whitman. — It  is  the  sweetest,  solemnest  of  all  our  singing 
birds. 

Morris. — Being  on  Long  Island  I  was  almost  constantly  in 
view  of  the  sea.  Now,  these  three  elements — the  lilac,  the 
hermit-thrush  and  the  sea — are  the  prevailing  elements  of  those 
great  lyrics,  "Out  of  the  Cradle  Endlessly  Rocking"  and  the 
great  Lincoln  ode.  I  consider  that  if  any  man  was  to  create  so 
much  lyric  beauty,  euphony  and  harmony  are  necessarily  a  main 
part  of  his  texture. 

Whitman. — No  doubt,  Harrison,  that  is  part  of  the  story— 
but  there's  a  deal  more  beyond — a  deal  more  ! 

Donahison. — The  idea  I  have  always  had  of  Walt  Whitman's 


V 


-.-C—- 


I  ^ 


318 


IN  RE   WALT   WHITMAN. 


euphony  and  rhythm  ami  poetry  was  the  idea  expressed  by  Mr. 
Williams:  it  is  not  at  all  what  Mr.  Morris  undertakes  '0  exhibit. 
And,  by  the  way,  I  am  twice  as  old  as  that  boy  and  he  can  talk 
twice  as  well  as  I  can. 

IVhit'Hitn. — Don't  say  that,  Tom  Donaldson — you  stand  very 
well  on  your  own  feet. 

Voices. — Talcott  Williams — Williams  ! 

IVhihnan.  -CiQi  up,  Talcott — show  yourself! 

WiUiams  {Talcott). — Yes,  Mr.  Whitman,  and  all — I  will,  and 
let  me  say  a  woril,  too.  We  are  here  marking  the  fourth  of  a 
long  series  of  celebrations  of  this  birthday.  l'"rom  this  point  we 
will  go  on  in  the  development  of  those  broad  principles  which 
will  gradually  overspread  the  world,  and  which  to-day  are  knowrj 
to  all  the  English-speaking  vvorld,  and  which  in  time  shall  know 
neither  let  nor  limit.  As  I  remember  how  lesser  forms  of  verse 
have  disappeared,  how  the  bric-a-brac  of  verse  crumbles  under 
the  touch  of  years,  I  feel  that  there  are  new  meanings  in  yours. 
As  we  gather  at  this  table,  at  which  few  sit  but  at  which  all  are 
peers,  in  the  i)resence  which  dignifies  us  to-night,  I  feel  in  some 
sense  a  new  meaning  in  the  line,  ".Age  shakes  Athene's  tower  but 
spares  gray  Marathon."  For  me  the  democracy  of  your  verse  is 
only  the  lesser  and  smaller  part  of  it.  The  higher  and  wider 
side  is  its  spiritual  side.  The  circumstance  that,  in  an  age  which 
not  only  doubts  democracy  but  doubts  itself,  and  doubts,  some- 
times, the  universe,  the  universe  has  been  to  you  a  road  of  many 
roads — the  road  of  travelling  souls. 

Voices. — Letters  !     Letters  ! 

Whitman. — Yes,  Horace,  the  letters — bits  of  them,  anyway. 

Wallace.  —  "This  evening — which  till  a  short  time  ago  was 
dull,  cold  and  overcast,  with  dark  lowering  rain-clouds — is  now, 
at  sunset,  clear,  calm,  and  radiant  with  heavenliest  hues.  May 
it  be  an  omen  of  your  remaining  life  !  " 

Whitman. — Good  boy  !  Good  boy  !  And  a  dozen  sign  with 
him — royal  Lancashire  fellows,  all.  Read  their  names — read 
their  names  !  .   .   .   They  call  themselves  "  the  College." 

Mead. — "All  lovers  of  nature  and  freedom  join  in  grateful 
thought  of  your  free  and  stalwart  life." 


i 


ROUND   TABLK    WITH   WALT   WHITMAN. 


3^9- 


May 


Whitman. — That  is  a  magazinist,  but  the  magazinists  as  a  rule 
have  rejected  us. 

Stedman. — "  Life,  after  all,  is  not  like  a  river — although  it  is 
the  fashion  to  say  that  it  is — for  //w/ stream  flows  more  slowly  as 
it  nears  the  boimiUess  sea.  But  if  Walt's  'olrtlidays  seem  to  suc- 
ceed one  another  more  rapidly  as  the  years  shorten,  I  take  all 
the  more  tiie  hope  that  there  may  be  (to  use  his  own  word;  a 
long  tally  of  them  yet  in  store.  And  Whitman's  poetry  is 
like  the  river:  nothing  of  it  more  tranquil,  nothing  broader  " 
and  deeper,  than  his  songs  almost  within  sound  of  the  infinite 
surge.  Take,  for  instance,  the  last  chant  of  his — '  To  the  Sun- 
set Breeze.'  It  recalls  the  sense  of  zest,  and  of  physical  har- 
mony, with  which  Borrow's  blind  gypsy  asked  to  be  placed 
where  he  could  feel  the  wind  from  the  heath  :  over  and  beyond 
this,  the  reach  of  a  noble  intellect,  the  yielding  of  a  strong  soul, 
to  the  vast  movement  of  the  universe.  To  such  a  bard  it  is  of 
little  moment  whether  he  stays  in  one  world  or  another.  But 
to  us  it  is  nuich  to  have  him  still  among  us."      ,  , 

IVhitman. — We  all  like  Stedman  :  he  is  hearty,  warm,  gener- 
ous— yes,  sticks  to  his  guns,  too,  though  his  guns  are  not  always 
ours.  To-night  we  all  seem  to  melt  and  flow  together.  \_To' 
Tmttlfcl.'] — It  might  go  hard  with  us  if  this  was  all  simply  di- 
rected to  Walt  Whitman  I  But  we  are  here,  I  as  much  as  any, 
to  pay  our  respects,  not  to  Walt  Whitman,  but  to  democracy  !: 
lA/otiti  aoain."] — Whose  is  the  next  message  ? 

Morse. — "  I  must  join  the  chorus.  A  friend  visiting  Camden, 
some  months  ago  reported  to  me:  'I  found  Whitman  calmly 
sitting  in  the  midst  of  such  utter  and  appalling  literary  confusion 
I  wondered  for  a  moment  how  he  breathed — vast  heaps  of  every- 
thing piled  about  him.  It  seemed  as  though  an  earthquake  had 
thrown  all  the  life  and  literature  of  the  hour — everything,  in  fact — • 
into  ruins,  but  the  old  god.  He  alone  remained  unperturbed 
and  indestructible.'  Perhaps  this  friend  did  not  go  so  much 
amiss,  forecasting  with  a  wider  significance  than  intended  the 
fate  to  men  and  things  some  far  future  will  reveal." 

Whitman. — That  is  Sidney — our  Sidney.     We  have  his  bust 
of  us  up-stairs,  and  a  noble  piece  of  work  it  is ;  some  think,  the  - 


3ao 


IN  RE   WALT   Will  Til  AN. 


best.  [To  Traub<  ]  John  Burroughs,  of  all  men,  should  be 
here  to-night.  He  should  not  only  be  here  but  be  at  the  head 
of  the  table — see  all  the  fellows,  hear  all  that  is  said,  throw  a 
strain  into  the  music  himself. 

Curtis  {George  Wil/iam). — "My  hearty  respect  and  regard 
for  the  sturdy  and  faithful  man  whom  you  honor." 

ly/ii/inan. — How  cautious — how  non-committal  I 

Blake. — "  My  reverential  greeting  to  the  venerable  poet  whose 
songs  will  wind  men's  arms  around  each  other's  necks  if  we  will 
sing  them  truly  after  him." 

Whitman. — Blake — Blake:  is  that  Blake  of  Chicago?  Yes — 
I  know  him  :  he  has  been  here.     Thanks!     Thanks! 

Sanborn. — "  My  earnest  iove  to  you,  Walt  Whitman,  on  this 
memorial  occasion.  We  think  of  you  at  Concord  as  often  as  we 
look  out  over  the  meadows  across  the  river,  which  you  were  so 
fond  of  feeding  your  eyes  upon." 

Whitman. — Sanborn  was  one  of  our  earliest  friends!  And 
now,  Tom  Harned,  you  don't  intend  to  slip  us  altogether  ? 
Get  up,  Tom  :  say  your  say. 

Harned. — We  have  heard  much  about  "  Leaves  of  Grass  " — 
about  Walt  Whitman  and  his  methods.  But  my  mind  is  ani- 
mated by  other  ideas.  During  the  past  year  I  have  suffered  the 
dread  that  perhaps  it  would  not  novv  be  long  that  we  would  know 
Walt  Whitman  here  in  person.  The  tact  must  be  stated  that 
during  the  past  few  months  he  has  occupied  a  room  above  us, 
unable  to  leave  it,  his  physical  co^.dition  becoming  weaker  day 
by  day.  It  seems  to  me  that  f'.ie  great,  the  supreme,  lesson  of 
Walt  Whitman's  life  is  this:  that  he  has  been  entirely  consistent 
with  himself,  that  he  has  not  advocated  any  doctrine  that  he  has 
not  lived.  And  to  me,  inexpressibly  beyond  the  hope  of  giving 
utterance  to  the  thought,  the  calmness  and  deliberation  with 
which  Walt  Whitman  invites  the  future  and  looks  forward  un- 
fearingly  to  crossing  the  unknown  sea,  is  one  of  the  most  beauti- 
ful evidences  of  this  consistency.  Whitman,  above  all  others,  is 
the  poet  of  immortality.  And  when  I  use  the  word  I  mean  by 
it  a  conviction  of  the  immortality  of  identity — that  our  lives  do 
not  end  here,  that  death  is  an  essential — ay,  as  he  urges,  even  to 


ROUND  TABLE   WITH   WALT   WJIITMAX. 


331 


be  sung  to,  praised.  Calm,  exalted,  he  awaits  death.  Here, 
then,  in  Walt  Whitman's  presence,  I  desire  to  say  that  that  is 
the  sublime,  the  supreme,  index  of  his  character. 

W/tifnuvi. — And  now  comes  your  turn,  Horace. 

Traubel, — No,  I  must  be  excused.  I  feel  myself  in  the  midst 
of  a  battle  of  which  I  may  some  time  have  something  to  say. 
My  turn  has  not  come.  When  the  battle  is  over,  then  I  may 
write  of  it. 

Whitman, — You  are  right,  boy — your  turn  is  not  yet.  Years 
and  years  from  no\y,  when  I  am  gone — when,  as  you  say,  the 
battle  is  over — much  may  depend  upon  your  teaching,  and  you 
will  .set  out  the  exact  lines  of  evidence.  You  are  right,  boy — 
and  God  bless  you  ! 

Clifford. — I  will  put  in  a  wcTd,  too,  though,  like  Traubel,  I 
feel  to  be  excused  to-night.  Everybody  knows  Emerson's  re- 
mark :  "To  be  great  is  to  be  misunderstood."  There  is  a  story 
that  I  believe  to  be  authentic  to  the  eff'^ct  that  when  some  one 
'jame  to  him  and  asked  what  he  had  meant  by  a  certain  passage 
Oi"  passages  in  his  essays,  he  replied  in  his  rather  embarrassed 
manner  that  he  supposed  that  when  he  wrote  the  matter  referred 
to  he  had  meant  something  clear  enough,  which  now  was  for- 
gotten or  obliterated.  So,  Mr.  Whitman,  you  are  not  alone  in 
that  particular,  if  your  own  account  of  yourself  be  correct.  But 
I  am  not  going  to  make  a  speech.  Let  me  add  an  amusing 
episode.  In  my  not  very  remote  experience,  when  I  happened 
by  accident  to  be  one  of  a  company  of  persons  where  the 
name  of  Walt  Whitman  was  mentioned  and  pretty  warmly  es- 
poused by  a  majority  of  those  present,  a  somewhat  well- 
known  poetaster  of  these  parts,  to  whose  name  it  would  be 
cruel  if  I  gave  it  an  immortality  by  mentioning  it  here,  called 
a  halt  by  crying  out :  "  Well,  if  Walt  Whitman  is  a  poet,  then  I 
am  not  one."  A  no  inconsiderable  world  of  professionals  will 
one  day  be  tried  by  that  standard,  and  it  is  not  likely  that  him 
we  call  Whitman — him  we  honor  to-night — will  suffer  in  the 
decision. 

Whitman. — Why,  Clifford,  you  swing  a  heavy  cli'.b  !  Walt 
Whitman  ?  Sure  enough — no  poet  at  all !  That  is  the  way 
21 


■«»r^ 


V  ./ 


33J 


/iV  RK  WA/.r  wntntAS. 


the  schools  have  had  it  for  a  long  time  I  lUii.  here  is  Miss 
Porter,  too — what  has  she  to  say  to  all  this? 

I\»tfr  (  J/m),  —  I  know  we  all  waiu  to  say  soincthinj,'  to-ninlit, 
and  what  I  would  like  to  say,  or  llie  thought  that  has  partic  ulaily 
otTurred  to  me  in  what  I  have  read  of  yours,  is  that  you  coniiei  t 
literature  more  closely  with  life  than  any  one  has  done  before. 
And  that  is  what  we  jtraise  particularly — we  narrow  people  who 
have  just  lH'),'un  to  know  you — and  that  is  what  we  look  forward 
to  in  the  future  :  that  that  literature  may  become  more  widely 
spreail  which  is  more  closely  connected  with  life,  as  you  connect 
it  in  your  democracy  and  in  your  "  Leaves  of  (Irass." 

Whitman. — And  Kakins — what  of 'i'om  Kakins?  He  is  here. 
Haven't  you  somell;i:>g  to  say  to  us,  Eakins? 

Eakins. — I  a»M  not  a  speaker 

Whitman. — So  much  the  better — you  are  more  likely  to  say 
something. 

Eakins. — Well,  as  some  of  you  know,  I  some  years  ago — a  few 
— painted  a  picture  of  Mr.  Whitman.  1  began  in  the  usual  way, 
but  soon  found  that  the  ordinary  methods  wouldn't  do — that 
technique,  rules  and  traditions  would  have  to  be  thrown  aside  ; 
that,  before  all  else,  he  was  to  be  treated  as  a  man,  whatever  be- 
came of  what  are  commonly  called  the  |)rinciples  of  art. 

Whitman. — What  wouldn't  we  give  for  O'C'onnor,  Ingcrsoll, 
Burroughs,  to-night !  Dear  O'Connor — dead,  dead  !  Mow  he 
would  enter  into  it  all — absorb  it — glorify  it ! 

Clarkt'  {Miss). — I  would  like  to  add  my  personal  thanks  to 
Walt  Whitman  for  his  insistence  upon  the  true  principle  of  de- 
mocracy, which  consists  not  in  bringing  down  those  things  which 
are  high  but  in  raising  up  those  things  which  are  low. 

Whitman. — A  hit  sharp  on  the  head  of  the  nail ! 

Eyre. — Walt,  I  am  one  of  the  boys  that  you  cannot  see  with 
your  eyes.  There  are  a  great  many  millions  outside  who  cannot 
see  you  now,  but  will  see  you  well  by-and-by.  I  met  a  man  in 
Philadelphia  to-day  to  whom  I  said,  "  I  am  going  to  dine  to-night 
with  the  greatest  man  of  this  century."  He  asked  :  "Who  is 
that  ?  "  and  I  answered,  "  Walt  Whitman."  He  seemed  surprised  : 
"  You  don't  mean  actually  to  call  him  that,  do  you?"  and  I 


Rovxn  TAitiK  wirn  wai.t  wiiiTMAy. 


3«3 


crc   IS 


Miss 


w^  to-ninlit, 

purlidilarly 

yi)U  (•()nr.c<t 

lone  before. 

people  wlio 

,)ok  forward 

luore  widely 

you  connect 
(I 

He  is  here. 


jkely  to  say 

rs  ago — a  few 
lie  usual  way, 
n't  do— lliat 
irown  aside  ; 
whatever  be- 
f  art. 

or,  IngorsoU, 
d  !     1  low  he 

nal  thanks  to 
nrii)le  of  de- 
things  which 

)W. 

not  see  with 
who  cannot 
huct  a  man  in 
diUe  to-night 
,1:  "Who  is 
led  surprised : 
fou?"  and  I 


M)  tired  him  that  I  did  with  all  my  heart  and  soul.  And  I 
never  said  a  word  more  true.  You  are  the  greatest  man  of  all 
this  century  and  of  all  the  world.  I  will  tell  you,  W.ilt,  why  you 
arc  so  great.  It  is  bee  ause  yt)u  have  taught  nie,  every  one,  that  I, 
they,  are  as  great  as  you.  'I'here  is  one  thing  1  want  to  say. 
You  spoke  of  woni.in.  It  has  been  to  nie  a  constant  wonder 
that  the  man  who  has  written  "  I  see  a  mother  clasping  her  child 
to  her  breast,  and  1  watch  her  long  and  long,"  has  never  married. 
ll'/iittnan. — 'I'hat  is  Ingersoll,  'I'lial  has  been  explained  by 
Dr.  Hucke,  who,  I  think,  knows  me  better  than  anyboily,  and  has 
sort  of  intercalated  and  foimd  out,  partly  by  his  own  instigationi 
and  partly  be(  aiise  he  feels  it  to  do.  I  leave  a  large — a  very, 
very,  large — explication  of  that  and  all  other  (piestions  to  Dr. 
Ihicke.  Somebody  says  you  cannot  mulerstaiul  any  one  except 
through  a  good  spirit.  Well,  it  is  not  alone  that — that  is  not 
all  ;  but  imtil  you  apjieal,  or  preach,  or  explicate  the  whole  thing 
by  a  gooil  si)irit,  I  don't  think  it  could  be  thoroughly  cxjilicated 
anyhow.  Hut  I  think  Dr.  Hiu  ke  and  lloratc  'i'raubel  are  the 
nearest  to  the  explicators — whatever  that  may  be — of  me  and  the 
difficulties  of  that  (luestion,  and  all  other  ([tiestions.  The  whole 
thing,  my  friend,  like  the  Nibelungen,  or  souiebody's,  cat,  has 
an  immensely  long,  long,  long  tail  to  it.  And  the  not  being 
married,  and  the  not  and  the  not  anil  the  not,  and  the  this  and 
the  this  and  the  this,  have  a  great  nuuiy  exi)lications.  At  the 
first  view  it  may  not  be  so  creilitable  to  the  fellow,  to  the  critter, 
but  go  on,  explicate  still  more  and  still  more  and  still  more  be- 
hind all  that.  Somebody  says,  and  I  tliink  it  is  a  wonderfully 
profound  thing,  that  there  is  no  life,  like  Ihirns',  for  instance, — 
like  Robert  Ihirns',  the  poet's — no  life  thoroughly  penetrated,  ex- 
jilicatcd,  understood  and  gone  behind,  and  that  gone  behind, 
and  that  fact  gone  behind,  and  that  fact  gone  behind,  but  after 
all,  after  awhile,  you  see  why  it  nuist  be  so  in  the  nature  of  things. 
And  that  is  a  splendid  explication  of  Robert  Burns.  You  go  be- 
hind all,  and  you  realize  that,  no  matter  what  the  blame  may  be 
to  Robert  Burns,  somehow  or  other  you  feel  like  excusing  and 
saying  that  that  is  the  reason  why,  and  that  is  the  reason  why,, 
and  that  is  the  reason  why.     See  ? 


JT". 


324 


IN  RE   WALT  WHITMAN. 


Eyre  [^Still  on  his  feet,  as  when  interrupted  by  Whitman']. — 
Tliis  has  been  the  most  successful  speech  of  my  life,  and  I  could 
stand  on  my  feet  for  half  an  hour  and  hear  some  other  fellow 
talk  ;  and  of  all  the  fellows  in  the  world  whom  I  should  love  so 
to  hear  talk — like  a  rivulet,  like  a  brook,  like  a  universal  cataract, 
like  some  babbling  spring,  like  the  fields,  like  the  birds — Walt 
Whitman  stands  the  first. 

Whitman  [^Laughing]. — But  my  speech  is  not  yours.  Give  us 
yours. 

£yre. — I  want  to  ask  a  question.  I  don't  know  that  you 
like  the  word  literature.  There  is  something  better  than  that, 
don't  you  think  ? 

Whitman. — There  is  something  better  than  that,  deeper  than 
that,  behind  that ;  like  religion,  which  is  not  the  conventional 
church,  by  any  means,  but  rests  on  something  deeper. 

Eyre. — In  one  of  your  poems  I  have  found — but  will  you  let 
file  repeat  it  ?  .  ■  . 

Whitman. — Go  ahead  if  it  is  not  too  long. 

Eyre. — I  want  to  call  attention  to  "  My  Captain,"  a  poem 
which  has  in  it  the  element  of  the  dramatic  in  a  sublime  and 
startling  degree — marvellous  contrasts  of  color  and  sound.  I 
want  especially  to  call  your  attention  to  the  third  verse.  I  shall 
give  it,  in  order  to  show  what  I  mean.     \^Recites.'\ 

Whitman  {Leaning  across  the  table]. — Horace,  wh.it  ails 
Brinton?     Isn't  he  to  speak? 

Traubel. — Ask  him.     I  hope  so. 

Whitman  {Turning  to  B.,  who  sat  at  his  left]. — What  about 
that,  Doctor?     We  want  to  hear  from  you ! 

Voices. — Brinton!  Brinton! 

Brinton  {Half  risen]. — I  do  not  know 

Voices. — Brinton  !  Brinton  ! 

Whitman. — You  can't  escape  us.  Doctor  I 

Brinton. — Well — if  I  must  I  must ! 

Whitman  {To  Traubel]. — Did  he  suppose  we  intended  that 
he  sliould  be  left  out  of  the  play  ? 

Brinton. — We  all  know  well  enough  why  we  are  here  to-night, 
and  we  all  know,  therefore,  that  this  dinner  and  its  after-talk  be- 


Vhiiman]. — 
and  I  could 
other  fellow 
lould  love  so 
Tsal  cataract, 
birds— Walt 

irs.     Give  us 

low  that  you 
er  than  that, 

:,  deeper  than 
conventional 
)er. 
t  will  you  let 


ain,"  a  poem 
a  sublime  and 
ind  sound.  I 
verse.     I  shall 

ce,   whit   ails 


—What  about 


ROUND   TABLE   WITH  WALT  WHITMAN. 


325 


intended  that 

here  to-night, 
ts  after-talk  be- 


come an  ascription  to  Walt  Whitman  and  the  great  cause  his 
"  Leaves  of  Grass  "  inaugurate!!  and  fortifies.  And  how  can  I  add 
anything  to  the  warm  and  loyal  words  spoken  to  this  effect  in  his 
presence  by  all  the  eloquent  fellows  who  have  spoken  before  me — 

Whitman. — Good,  Doctor  !  A  good  start !  You  can  add 
enough ! 

Voices. — Yes  !     Yes  ! 

Brinton. — Thank  you,  Mr.  Whitman — and  thank  you  all  ! 
But  I  feel  somewhat  in  the  position  of  a  man  who  at  the  last  hour 
is  asked  and  expected  to  put  the  keystone  in  the  arch.  I  know 
nobody  except  Walt  Whitman  himself  who  can  do  that  for  our 
arch  to-night 

Whitman. — Give  us  the  word  of  science,  Doctor  ! 

Brinton. — The  word  of  science  to  Walt  Whitman  would  be — 
you  have  done  me  and  the  world  a  service  beyond  all  service 
hitherto  done  in  literature  for  reason  and  the  rational  insiglit 
of  man.  You  have  made  comrades  of  uien.  You  have  made 
seekers,  discoverers,  along  lines  not  previously  travelled  or  known. 
If  we  are  here  about  this  table  in  testimony  of  an  acceptance  of 
Walt  Whitman's  interpretation  of  comradeship  and  joy,  we  are 
also  here  to  give  emphasis  to  his  principles  affecting  the  mental 
life  of  the  race.  Walt  Whitman's  "Leaves"  will  never  fade 
and  sere,  for  he  has  given  them  a  touch  of  vital  blood  which  will 
preserve  them  as  long  as  men  read  and  reason,  as  long  as  there 
are  eyes  to  see  and  brains  to  comprehend.  And  this  is  the  case 
because  in  this  poetic  volume  there  has  been  no  attempt  to  elude 
nature,  to  get  away  from  the  actual — because  its  author  wrote  on, 
without  sense  of  shame  or  motive  of  apology,  recounting  the 
sights  and  wonders  that  everywhere  appeared  before  him.  In 
the  highest  sense  a  reflector  of  truth,  he  is  also  in  the  simplest 
way  a  lover  of  men.  On  the  one  side  we  find  his  soul  reaching 
out  to  the  largest  questions  of  mind,  of  civilization  ;  on  the  other 
we  find  his  heart  throbbing  in  common  with  the  hopes  and  hor- 
rors of  the  simplest  men.  Science  sees  in  Whitman  a  teacher  of  j 
evolution — sees  in  him  perhaps  so  far  the  finest  fruit  of  evolution] 
and  its  profoundest  explicator  and  defender. 

Whitman. — Do  you  say  that.  Doctor? 


'.n 


3*6 


rx  KK  WAf.r  win  Tin  AX. 


If  f 


/innf(>». — Yes,  1  do.  Yoii  [turnini^  to  Uyii/m<)»\  liavr  held 
hijili  the  iK'rj)emli(  uliir  liaml,  iind  olVoiod  iis  the  most  |»iT(iniis 
gift  of  llie  nges-  /floied  ns  ficeth)in,  h)vc,  imniorlality.  \  7'/i/-n 
ni/i/frssiN^  ihosf  about  tho  tiif>/t\  |  I,rt  us  hold  up  ns  good  a  hand 
•»H  hifih,  in  alTot  lionatc  domonstiation  t)ronr  csloi'm  and  h)yally  I 
IWiitnutn.  -Noble  Dot  lor!  ll  is  the  best  note  ol"  ll\o  song, 
nliuost  !     And  yet  all  is  so  good — all  so  fits,  is  of  one  piece  I 

Jhnhi/i/wn. — If  1  understand  what  yo\i  have  done,  it  is  to 
tuake  a  plea  lot  Anieiie.i  and  the  An\erii  ans — it  is  to  make  a 
ple.i  tor  niuversalily  and  the  brotherhood  of  man.  Now,  do  1 
untlerstand  yon  right? 

.  U'/i!tm,rn.  ~()\\  \  that  is  one  thing — the  c  otnnn)i\hood, 
brotherhood,  dentoeratization,  or  whatever  it  may  be  tailed, 
Ihit  behintl  all  that  st)niething  remains.  I  hatl  a  tlispnie  with 
Tliomas  DntUey  sonic  years  agt).  Mis  lhet)rv  was,  that  onr  main 
thing  in  Amerita  was  tt)  lt)t)k  ont  tor  ourselves — ftir  the  fellows 
liore.  Well,  in  responst>,  I  remei\»ber  J  saitl,  rather  ineitlentally 
(but  1  tell  it  at  the  btUttim  t)f  ,my  heart),  that  the  theory  of  the 
prt\niess  anti  expansion  of  the  raiise  of  the  nunmon  bulk  t)f  the 
\>ei>ple  is  the  same  in  all  tnuntries — not  tudy  in  the  Ihilish 
islantls,  but  tm  the  eontinent  of  iMUf-pe  and  allwheres — that  we 
are  all  embarketl  together  like  fellows  in  a  ship,  bt)und  ft)r  good 
or  ttvi  bad.  What  wrt>eks  one  wrecks  all.  What  reaches  the 
pi>rt  for  t)ne  reat  hes  the  port  ft>r  all.  And  it  is  my  feeling,  and 
I  ht)pe  1  have  in  "  Leaves  of  drass"  expressetl  il,  that  the  bulk 
t>f  the  foimnon  people,  the  tt)rst»  t)f  the  pet»plo,  the  great  body  of 
the  pe»)ple  all  t)ver  the  civilized  world — aiul  any  oilier,  lot),  for 
that  niatler — are  sailing,  sailitig  together  in  the  samt>  ship. 
Anil  that  which  iet>partlizcs  one  jetipanlizos  all.  Anil  in  my  con- 
test with  Thomas  Dutlley,  wht>  is  a  thorough  "  prt)tectionist  " 
^in  whit  h  I  thoroughly  dilTer  f'rom  him\  inv  feeling  was  that  the 
attenipt  at  what  they  call  "  protection  "—thtingh  1  am  nc  nostcd 
in  the  protection  details  and  thetuies  antl  fornnilalit)ns  a>  I  sta- 
tistics, and  all  that  gties  tt>  boost  up  and  wall  i.,  iiul  wall  out  and 
prote<'t  out  (dt)ubtless  I  tread  on  the  corns  t)f  a  gtitul  many  peo- 
[>lc,  but  I  fed  i;  tleeply,  and  the  ohler  1  live  to  be  the  stronger  I 
feci  it) — is  wrong,  and  that  one  feeling  for  all.  extreme  reciproc* 


norxi)  TAIU.I-:  nnn  wait  wiutman. 


%*1 


mmonluMxl, 

ili'^piilo  with 

ml  t)iir  main 

tho  follows 

iiuitliMttally 
u'oiy  dC  (lie 

bulk  nl"  lht« 

llif  Hritisl* 
res — that  we 
11(1  lor  ^ood 

rcarhos  the 
fVcliiig.  and 
hat  tho  hulk 
real  body  of 
her,  too,  for 

same  ship. 
1  in  my  con- 
>to»liv)nist  " 
was  that  the 
n  no'  tiostod 
>n3  a;  'I  sta- 
ivall  out  and 
I  many  pco- 
ic  stronger  I 
ne  reciproc- 


peof^lf,  of  ix II peoples  iittii  ail  nues.     And 


onnnon 

Leaves  of  Grass 


Ity  and  openness  and  frecli  leism,  is  the  policy  for  me.  And  I 
not  imly  ihink  that  it  is  an  in^portant  item  in  political  eronutny, 
hnt  I  think  it  is  the  essential  soi  iai  (groundwork,  away  down  ;  and 
to  me  nothin^^  will  do  evcntnally  hut  an  uiulorstandin^  of  (he 
soltihutly  of  Ihi 
that  is  behind 

Well,  1  have  talked  and  garrulonssed  and  frivolled  so  lerrifii  ally 
this  eveniuff,  tnmh  to  my  amazement,  that  I  don't  think  I  have 
anything  left.  1  am  glad  to  see  yon  all,  and  1  appre«  iaie, 
thoroughly  appreciate,  your  kindness  and  lomplimentary  honor 
of  me  and  everything  -but  oh  I  I  have  not  felt  tip  to  the  o(  (asictn 
of  making  i\mch  of  a  speei  h,  or,  at  any  rale,  any  more  of  a  speech 
than  I  have  beei\  llabbing  away  at  from  time  to  lime.  I  must 
say  to  my  Iriends  hnther  along  the  table  thai  I  am  about  half 
blind  and  cannot  see  more  than  ten  feet  ahead  and  hardly  thai- 
else  I  am  stne  I  should  specify  them,  [ffe  luti/  greetetf  one  <iffer 
another  hv  fhtnie.']     'The  main  thing,  as  I  lold  my  friend   Horace 


'I'ranb 


is,  that  we  are  here,  and  are 


jolly, 


and   havmg  a  goc 


)d 


jolly  lime.      I  welcome  you — give  out  nty  love  lo  every  one  of 
yon — and  to  many  and  many  a  one  nol  here. 

r'('/'(r.r.--Are  there  no  other  Idlers? 

Daiihel.      Ves.— several  —but  no  lime  lo  read  them:   the  old 


man    is   tired   and  wishes  lo  withdraw, 


I    have   let! (IS  slil! — a 


whole  cluster — from  Adler,  (lilder.  Tucker — from  Miss  (lilder, 
too,  and  Miss  T.azarns.  Ihil  we  have  given  what  Wall  just  called 
"  samples."  Now  he  says  that  his  ears  and  eyes  are  about  given 
out. 

W'hitnuin. — What  a  pity  I  Ihil  it  is  late — and  they  will  for- 
give us.  I'm  afraid  I  have  already  overshot  the  mark.  And  — 
Warry — where  arc  you?  \Risin\^ — takiuj^  his  ciitie — Witvin^ 
hi\   h<r/hh  fo  the  risen  eron<<f.\      And    now  to   all,  (Jood-night 


and  thanks,  and  (lod  bless  yon. 


{Retires.] 


■ 
I 


{32i) 


WALT  WHITMAN. 


Serene,  vast  head,  with  silver  cloud  of  hair. 
Twined  on  the  purple  dusk  of  death 

stern  medallion,  velvet  set — 
Vjid  Norseman  throned,  not  chained  upon  thy  chair  i 
Thy  grasp  of  hand,  thy  hearty  breath 
Of  welcome  thrills  me  yet 

As  when  I  faced  thee  there.  . 

Loving  my  plain  as  hou  thy  sea, 
Facing  the  east  as  ^  ou  the  wast, 
I  bring  a  handful  of  grass  to  thee. 
The  prairie  grasses  I  know  the  best — 
Type  of  the  wealth  and  width  of  the  plain, 
Strong  of  the  strength  of  the  wind  and  sleet, 
Fragrant  with  sunlight  and  cool  with  rain — 
I  bring  it,  and  lay  it  low  at  thy  feet. 
Here  by  the  eastern  sea. 

Hamlin  Garland. 


\   . 


/I 


WALT  WHITMAN  AND  THE  COSMIC  SENSE, 


By  RICHARD  MAURICE  BUCKE. 


I  WANT  to  State  in  few  words  what,  after  long  thought  and 
study,  seems  to  me  the  central  fact  in  this  Walt  Whitman 
"Leaves  of  Grass"  business.  It  is,  in  my  opinion,  that  there 
exists  in  Whitman  a  function,  faculty,  sense,  or  whatever  it  may 
be  called,  that  does  not  exist  in  ordinary  people,  and  it  is  from 
this  faculty  or  sense  that  the  charm  and  influence  of  the  man  and 
his  words  flow.*  It  is  not  that  this  faculty  stands  alone;  it  could 
not ;  it  is  necessary  for  its  existence  that  an  exalted  human  per- 
sonality should  co-exist  and  underlie  it.  If  Whitman  were  not 
a  supreme  man  in  other  respects — if  he  were  not  a  highly  devel- 
oped man  from  the  point  (  f  view  of  the  senses,  the  intellect  and 
the  moral  nature,  if  he  were  not  a  superior  person  physically  as 
well  as  mentally,  he  would  not  and  could  not  have  the  faculty 
referred  to,  or  at  least  could  not  have  it  so  extraordinarily  devel- 
oped as  it  was  in  him.  How  can  I  give  an  idea  of  what  this 
faculty  is?  It  has  no  recognized  name.  Yet  it  certainly  has  an 
existence  and  is,  as  I  believe,  a  definite  entity  of  the  very  first 
importance.  In  almost  every  page  of  the  "Leaves"  Whitman* 
alludes  to  it — or  what  he  says  presupposes  it.  But  there  are 
passages,  as  we  shall  see,  which  disclose  it  more  clearly,  reveal  it 
with  greater  abandon,  than  does  the  average  page — passages  in 

*  When  I  began  writing  upon  this  subject  I  imagined  that  I  could  put  all 
I  wanted  to  say  within  the  compass  of  a  magazine  article,  but  as  I  proceeded 
I  found  the  subject  much  larger  than  I  anticipated.  The  following  pages  may, 
therefore,  be  looked  upon  as  a  brief  abstract  to  be  followed  later  (I  hope)  by 
a  volume  to  be  named  "  Cosmic  Consciousness." 

(329) 


I        ! 


K 


h 


330 


IN  liK  WALT  unmrAN. 


•wliich  I'.c  tells  us,  ill  liis  own  veiled  ami  mystic  manner,  about  his 
pussessiun  of  it,  and  what  it  is,  and  its  mode  of  action. 


U 


' 


H. 

Briefly  stated,  the  faculty  in  question  is  a  new  consciousness 
superadded  to  the  old.  My  slalemcnt  is  that  this  man  has  *  a 
mental  function  not  possessed  by  (ordinary  men,  and  that  that 
function  is  a  form  of  consciousness  traiiscciuling  the  common 
consciousness  that  wc  all  have,  and  superaddcil  to  it. 

The  only  way  to  make  this  statement  intelligible  is  to  show 
the  relation  of  the  new  t(»  the  old  mental  functioi'is,  and  how 
these  latter  came  into  existence  in  the  past  in  essentially  the 
same  manner  as  it  is  alleged  the  former  is  coming  into  existence 
now. 

Let  US  assume  that  what  the  ablest  students  of  life  tell  us  is  a 
fact ;  that,  namely,  there  was  a  time  when  our  ancestors  were 
simply  unconscious  ;  that  they  were  organisms  so  low  in  the  scale 
of  creation  that  they  had  not  attained  to  this  primitive  mental 
faculty.  Then  gratlually,  as  they  advanced  along  the  highway 
of  life,  there  was  developed  in  them  a  consciousness  of  a  world 
(of  something)  outside  them  and  ir.  the  midst  of  which  they  had 
their  abode.  That  was  an  immense  stride  upward  on  the  ladder 
of  universal  life.  Later,  after  thousands  and  tens  of  thousands 
of  generations  of  creatures  who  had  consciousness  of  the  external 
world,  there  dawned  upon  this  advancing  race  another  conscious- 
ness enormously  transcending  the  first — namely,  self-conscious- 
ness. Here  was  another  advance  as  great  and  as  momentous  as 
the  f receding. 

ist.  Organized  mater  became  conscious  and  the  higher  animal 
kingdoms  were  founded. 

2(1.  Conscious  beings  became  self-conscious,  and  man  began 
his  career  upon  the  planet. 

Now,  when  these  two  steps,  and  all  those  that  preceded  them 
and  made  them  possible,  were  taken,  was  the  end  of  the  journey 

*  I  suppose  I  should  s.iy  //</</,  but  L  liiul  it  impossible  to  think  of  Wall  Whit- 
oiian  as  non-existeiU. 


WALT   WnrrMAN  and   TUK  cosmic  A'A'A'.VA'. 


about  his 


33» 


sciousness 

m  has  *  a 

tliat  that 

:  common 

is  to  show 
;,  and  how 
iitially  the 
)  existence 

tell  us  is  a 
stors  were 
n  tlie  scale 
:ive  mental 
le  highway 
of  a  world 
;h  they  had 
the  hulder 
■  tliousands 
he  external 
conscious- 
conscious- 
inicntous  as 

;hcr  animal 

MAN  began 

reded  them 
the  journey 

)f  Wall  Whit- 


reached  ?  I  say  no.  I  say  that  tliere  is,  that  there  can  be,  no 
end  to  suclj  a  journey  as  that  in  (lucstion,  and  that  sooner  or  later 
another  step — other  steps — must  be  made. 

The  universal  acquirement  of  the  new  faculty  of  which  I  have 
been  speaking,  and  of  the  existence  of  which  we  find  evidence 
in  the  "  Leaves,"  is  to  be,  as  I  believe,  the  next  step  in  this  on« 
ward  march. 

III. 

The  case  of  Walt  Wiiitman,  ;is  possessor  of  the  new  sense,  is 
far  from  being  isolated.  The  present  writer  knows  personally 
some  seven  other  men,  all  at  present  living,  who  have  it,  or  have 
had  if,  in  less  marked  ilevelopmcnt.  The  following  brief  state- 
ment may  be  made  as  to  the  faculty  itself; 

1st.  It  appears  in  individuals,  mostly  (surely  not  entirely  ?)  of 
the  jnale  sex,  who  are  otherwise  highly  developed — men  of  good 
intellect,  of  high  moral  {|ualities,  of  superior  physique.* 

2(1.  It  apjjcars  at  about  that  time  of  life  when  the  organism 
is  at  its  high  water  mark  of  excellence  and  tfiiciency — at  the  age 
of  30  to  40  years. 

Analogy  would  lead  us  to  believe  that  this  step  in  promotion 
awaits  the  whole  race — that  a  time  will  come  when  to  be  without 
the  function  in  (picstion  will  be  a  mark  of  inferiority  parallel  to 
the  absence,  at  present,  of  the  moral  nature. 

The  presiunption  seems  to  me  to  be  that  the  new  sense  will 
become  more  and  more  common,  show  itself  earlier  and  earlier 
in  life,  until,  after  many  generations,  it  will  appear  in  each 
normal  individual  at  the  age  of  ])uberty  or  even  earlier;  then  go 
on  becoming  more  and  more  universal,  and  appearing  at  an  earlier 
and  earlier  age,  until,  after  lumdieds  or  thousands  of  generations, 
it  shows  itself  immediately  after  infancy  in  every  member  of  the 
race.  For  it  must  have  been  that  its  immediate  precursor,  self- 
consciousness,  appeared  at  first  in  mid-life,  in  the  most  advanced 
specimens  of  the  race,  becanie  more  and  more  universal,  niani- 

•T  hnve  collocted  so  fnr  einliteen  cases — nil  men.  Why  is  the  new  sense 
conrnicd  to  tliiil  sex  ?  Why  is  il  tliat  we  Imvc  110  female  religious  founder? 
(iieatpoet?     Cirent  musicinn?     Grcnt  humnrist?     Great  philosopher  ? 


'! 


b 


3S' 


LV  RK   WAl.T   WIlir.^fAX. 


tVstiHl  itself  at  an  railier  ami  earlier  age,  until,  as  \vc  sec  now,  it 
(lc«  lares  itself,  in  every  fairly  constituted  individual,  at  about  the 
age  of  three  years. 

IV. 

In  order  to  broaden  the  basis  of  the  present  argument  it  may 
be  well,  though  probably  not  necessary,  to  state  that  the  succes- 
sive evolution  of 

1st,  Simple  Consciousness ; 

ad,  Self-Consciousness;  and, 

3d,  Cosmic  Consciousness, 
as  above  set  forth,  c»)nstitutes  no  exception  to  the  general  course 
of  the  unfolding  of  the  human  mind,  of  the  human  race,  of  the 
luganic  worUl,  of  the  universe  as  a  whole,  as  far  as  Known  to  us. 
Without  going  here  into  the  broad  field  of  evolution,  it  may  be 
briefly  pointed  out  that  the  unfolding  of  the  human  being", 
regardcvl  fron\  the  psychical,  as  well  as  from  any  other  siile,  illus- 
trates throughout  this  doctrine,  as  will  be  clearly  seen  from  the 
following  brief  statement : 

The  human  mind  is  a  collection  of  certain  bundles  of  faculties 
which  are  nan\ed  : 

1st,  The  Intellect  ; 

ad,  The  Moral  or  Kmotional  Nature  J 

3d,  The  Sense  of  Sight ; 

4th,  The  Sense  of  Hearing,  etc.,  etc.   ' 

The  intellect  is  made  up  of  many  sef)arate  faculti'^s,  stich  as 
conscioiisness,  self-consciousness,  perception,  conception,  judg- 
ment, comparison,  imagination,  memory,  and  so  on  ;  the  moral 
nature  of  others,  such  as  love,  reverence,  faith,  fear,  awe,  hope, 
hate,  humor  and  many  more.  The  sense  of  sight  is  in  like 
manner  made  up  of  the  perception  of  light  and  darkness,  of  form, 
of  distance,  of  color,  and  so  on  ;  the  sense  of  hearing  of  the 
apprehension  of  loudness,  of  pitch,  of  distance,  of  direction,  of 
music,  ami  much  more. 

The  important  fact  to  noMce  at  present  is  that  each  of  these 
faculties  named,  as  well  as  the  much  larger  number  left  unnamed, 
came  into  existence  in  its  own  time.     For  instance — simple  con- 


1; 


WALT  WHITMAN  AM>  TUl:'  COSMir  .VAXV/i'. 


33J 


c  now,  it 
iiboiit  the 


lit  it  may 
ic  succes- 


ral  course 
:c,  of  tlio 
iwn  to  lis. 
it  may  be 
m  belMg", 
iiic,  illits- 
from  the 

f  fiiculties 


i,  such  as 
ion,  judg- 
:lio  moral 
we,  hope, 
s  in  like 
1,  of  form, 
ng  of  the 
sction,  of 

1  of  these 
unnamed, 
mple  con- 


miousncss  niiiiions  of  years  ago  ;  self-consc  ioniuiiss  perhaps  two 
or  three  liundrcd  thousand  years  ago.  (icncral  vision  is  enor- 
mously old,  but  the  color  sense  only  about  a  thousand  genera- 
tions; general  hearing  has  existed  many  millions  of  years,  l)Ul 
the  nuisical  sense  not  many  thousand  years  ;  the  intellect,  the 
basis  of  which  is  self  consi  iousness,  must  be  over  a  huiulretl 
thousand  years  old,  but  the  human  moral  nature  is  probably  not 
a  quarter  as  old  ;  and  so  on. 

V. 

The  length  of  time  during  which  the  race  h.is  been  possessed 
of  any  given  faculty  may  be  more  or  less  accurately  estimated 
from  various  indications.  In  cases  in  which  the  birth  of  the  fac- 
ulty took  plate  in  comparatively  recent  limes — within,  for  in- 
stance, the  last  twenty-five  or  thirty  thousand  years,  as  iii  the 
case  of  the  color  sense  and  the  sense  of  fragrance — jjliilology,  as 
pointed  out  by  Geiger,  may  assist  materially  in  determining  the 
age  of  its  ap])earan(e.  Hut  for  comjiaratively  early-appearing 
faculties — as  the  intellect,  self-consciousness — or  the  assump- 
tion ol  the  erect  attitude,  this  means  necessa  y  fails  us.  We 
fall  back,  then,  upon  two  tests: 

1st,  The  age  at  which  the  faculty  appears  in  the  indivitlual 
man  at  the  present  time;  and, 

ad.  The  more  or  less  universality  of  the  faculty  in  the  members 
of  the  race  as  we  see  it  at  the  present  tinie. 

I,  As  ontogeny  is  nothing  else  but  philogeny  in  petto  ;  that  is, 
as  the  ev()lution  of  the  individual  is  necessarily  the  evolution  of 
the  r.ice  in  an  abridged  form,  sim|)ly  because  it  cannot  in  the 
nature  of  things  be  anything  else — cannot  follow  any  other  lines, 
there  being  no  other  lines  for  it  to  follow ;  it  is  plain  that  organs 
and  (iictiities,  speaking  broadly  and  generally,  will  appear  in  the 
indivitlual  in  the  same  order  in  which  they  appeared  in  the  race, 
and  the  one  being  known,  the  other  may  with  confidence  be 
assumed. 

3.  When  a  new  (iiculty  appears  in  a  race  it  will  be  found  in 
the  very  beginning  in  one  individual  of  that  race  ;  later,  it  will  be 
found  in  a  few  individuals  ;  after  a  further  time  in  a  larger  per- 


i) 


m 


.VM 


l.\   h'h:    WAIT  WHirMA.W 


Svlf.j 


« cniam'  or  llu>  nu'mlu'i « or  the  rme  i  ullll  lutct  In  half  ihr  lunnlu'rn, 
ni\il  >«i)otnii)iil,  iti^«'i  tItotiMitnilN  ol  KtMUMiMiitnfl,  nit  ittdivitliial  who 
iniMf<<  tuuntft  <l^'  t;H\illv  is  tcKinilnl  i\n  it  iitou'^tiositv.  Ii\  illiis 
li.ilion  ot  ihm  litw  I  <in\|iioo  iit  mii\ii  llio  niimii  ill  sinm',  it  Iui  itllv 
JiiHl  I  ouunn  into  txisiou  r,  \\\\\\  sell  i  nnm  unwnt'sn,  it  liuiilly 
))(>lhiip<i  liioic  thittt  tt'lt  thoiiHitttil  goitcMdlions  nlil.  The  lltliNintl 
MMiMtMrtitnol  hrtVfliiTit  itt  rxlsh-nn'  nioio  tlntii  i»  htvlltotisiiml  ynus 
(M'll  I  oii<((  ioimni'HH  two  ot  \\\\v\'  limiilinl  tlioiiHUinl )  ;  llir  \\\\\hu  .\\ 
nv\\%v  I  oi\\i><(  iitio  rxislcnrc  Itt  lltr  ittiliv  iiln;il,  tvltfit  itl  itil,  iinii, 
(tl,  ov  itOrt  itilolrsrfttio  ^M'll  (  otlsrioilstH'ss  np|\('(tls  ill  itliotll  lliicr 
yt'itis  ol  it^ot  ;  I  In-  imisintl  si'iiNO  I'itil'i  to  iippnti  III  iiioii'  limn  liiill. 
|inliiip«i  ninsulrtuMv  iiiotc  ili.iii  luiH,  ilu>  iitciiilnMHor  iluTlvillroil 
ntrrs  (mII  I  oust  ioiwiK'MH  tiiih  In  np|Miir  In  »ci(;iiiily  liol  iitoir 
that'  one  poiHon  out  ol  a  tlioimaiul  iinlivuliutN  iu  llir  Maitu'  i  ivil 
Ir.fi  taronK  Of « oiisitloi  lln*  lam'  ol  tin*  loloi  miim*.  wIiov  m^c 
ran  he  approxiittali'ly  l\xnl  by  pliilolonv.  as  rnnipaitd  wiili  tin* 
visual  scitM' ol  loint.  Tin'  roloineiiHt'  liaH  oxistnl  in  tln«  larr 
Iiaivlv  a  ilioii'janti  ncnnaiion'*.  rtitm'H  into  cxiKlriin'  in  ihr  in 
tiivnlnal  .il  lioin  llu"  am'  ol,  sav,  linn-  lo  linrm  \i'aiH,  ainl  tails 
aliojjoiluM  lo  appoai  in  ont'atlnli  prison  oiii  ol  sixh  in  llic  lliiiislt 
f^lands.  'I'lio  •icns)-  ol  loim  roiiHitloirtl  m  a  pan  ol  si^lii  lum 
rxisli'il  in  llio  tare  probahly  al  IcitHl  a  iiiillinn  m-ncialions  ( iiiMirad 
ol  a  llioimainh  ;  appeals  in  llic  i;nlivi(liial  tvillitn  a  lew  ilavw  oi 
weekH  ol  biiilt  (insleail  ol  al  llic  a^e  ol  scvrial  veais^  ;  jIoch  not 
Tail  li>  appeal  inanv  hnus  in  a  nnllion  pemoiis  unslerttl  of  failing 
lo  appeal  oiiee  in  sixty  iiniiviiiiialH). 

VI. 

As  llio  laenllies  naineil  and  niany  iiioie  eaitto  into  oxiHlriiee  in 
the  ta»p.  eat  li  in  ils  own  lime,  wlieii  lite  laee  was  ready  lot  it, 
lei  Its  nssiinte.  as  we  niitsl.  ilial  giowlli,  ovolnlion.  d(>velopn\ent, 
OY  w'lalevei  we  ehoose  lo  eall  il.  lias  (as  tluis  exeinplilied)  altvays 
gone  on,  is  going  on  now.  and  (as  lai  as  we  ean  see)  will  ahvavs 
gx>  on.  U  we  aiv  liglit  in  stnlt  an  nRsiiniplion,  new  lat  nliies  will, 
iVvMti  lime  lo  lime,  aiisc  in  lite  mind.  as.  in  the  |>asl,  new  faeiillies 
have  arisen.  Tins  lieing  granted,  lei  ns  fin t her  assume  thai  what 
}.  e.vU  eosmie  eonseiousness  is  siu  h  a  nasreni,  stieh  a  wrr./r*v,/<-, 


m 


n-.*f.r  wnivM  i\  aM)  rut'  rttsun  .vk.v.va;, 


.1.15 


itlmtl  wlio 

III    illllH 

II  liuully 
n  liunllv 
1'  Miimii  III 
\i\\\\\  yniH 
r  lUllHii  III 

:ill,  lirill, 

lOlll    lllll'l- 

lllilll  lliill. 
•t  ivili/nl 
not   wow 

illlr    rivil 

lliimc  nm' 
Willi  llu- 
tile    I, ire 

II   llif   ill 
mill   liiils 

lie  lliilisli 
sinlit    llilS 

m  (instoiu) 

V    lIllVH    III 

iluiH  not 
ol  ruiling 


istciii  (•  ill 
ly  loi   ii, 

•ItipilU'llI, 

il)  nhviiys 
iihviivs 
illii's  will, 
V  l.inillioH 
tlirti  wliiil 


runiUy.  Ami  iidu  \\[  ih  m'r  ivlml  wi  kiimv  mIuhii  lliii  new  sfiist'^ 
Ntiilc,  liiiiiltv.  rum  lidii  or  wliiitcvcr  il  iiiny  lie  (iilliil. 

Il  fippciii'ii  prill*  ipiitly  (pi'ilittpM  iihviiy<<)  in  ilic  piiiip-  ol  lili-,  lii< 
mM»"rior  prMinm  l»l•|l)ll^ill^  in  llu-  innil  iiilviiin  fil  liit  rs  tliill  W,  il 
iip|)i'fim  ill  llir  Iokiiiu'iI  iiiiliv  iiliiuli  nl    llic  liiiiv 

Il  I  oiiirs 'iiii|iliiil\ ,  likf  .1  ll.i'ili,  jiwl  m'lfll  MiiiHi  inimiH'MsjlMfn    • 

llioii^li  tliin  IiimI  I  iitiit'N  NO  curly  in  lilc  lli;il  <  onipniilivi'ly  iVw  rrt- 

ollcii,  ill  liitir  vt<llr^,  Hi  on  roiniiiK  ;  <*ii*l  wIiimi  wc  lliliik  nl  it, 

II  iliH'H  iml  wcrni    piHMiMc   lliiil    i  hiimi  iniislicMs,  nrll  t  niwi  itiiiviiriM, 

or  rosniir  roiiMi  ioimiicsM  i  milit  well  i  onif  iiny  oilier  wiiy  lluin  per 

mtltiiiii. 

VII. 

Well,  llien,  siirli  nil  individii.il  (,•«  item  rilieil  eiilem  illlo  posses- 
nioil  of  coimii  ronsi  ioiHIlc'iM.  Wllill  iM  his  cxpclitiH  e  p  I  yjvv 
ilehiih  Willi  ^^llle  ililliili'in  e,  nIiim'  llierc  'in  lie  lillle  <|niilil  llml 
llie  plirnoiiieii;i  v.il  V  <  oimjileiiilil  v  in  •lill'innl  i  iisei.  Ilinvevei, 
I  will  II  V  In  keep  lo  wli;il  I  kiinw  to  lie  Inie  i\'^  fur  ns  il  K«irfl,  mid 
hIiiiM  hope  lo  nive  il  liiller  mnl  iiioie  exIiniHlive  ncroiinl  Inler. 

I.  'I'lie  peisoii,  miihlenlv,  willioiil  miy  wiiiiiinn,  lui'i  ii  seii'ie  of 
^ein^  iininernett  in  n  lliiiiii>  lolmeil  or  time  loloied  tiniid,  or  per- 
liiipH  I'iilher  II  Hi'iiHo  thai  llie  mind  ilnelf  Ih  lllled  wilh  him  h  ii  <  loud 
or  haze. 

a.  Al  the  nnuw  Inslnnt  Iip  Ii,  im  il  wpie,  liiillied  in  mi  miolion 
of  jov,  imsiirmii  e,  hiinnph,  "  milvnlioii  "  'The  l.ml  wool  i'l  iiol 
«lrii  lly  eorieel  il  Inkeii  in  ilM  ordiiim  y  Heiise,  (or  the  leeliiin,  when 
fully  developed,  Ih  llml  no  spei  inl  "  Hiilviition  "  |4  needed,  the 
S(  lieino  iipojj  wliieli  the  world  is  liiiill  lipin^  iiself  siillieieiil. 

■^.  Siiimllnneoimly  witli.oi  insliinlly  (ollowiii^,  Ihe  Mhove  spiiflr 
ntid  omolioiiiil  experiemcs,  there  i  onu  •.  (o  the  per^^oii  whom  we  iirp 
desi  riltiiiK  a  eleiir  eoneeplion,  in  onlliiie,  of  (he  diill  of  the  iini- 
vcrsp — a  « onseioimiiesH  thai  the  over  iiiliii|^  powei  whii  h  resides 
in  il  is  inrmilely  lieiiefK  eiil  :  a  vision  of  iiiir  winn.lf,,  or,  nl  leiisl, 
of  an  immense  wnni.K,  wliirli  dwarfs  all  eonrepliiin,  iniiiniiialioii, 
or  Rprt  Illation  spriii^iiiK  from  and  lulon^in^  to  ordinary  self- 
ronst  ionsness,  making  llio  old  nllempls  to  menially  grasp  the 
tiniveiRC  and  IIr  meaning  petty  and  even  rldiniloim. 

4.   Along  with  the  above  t oines  what  iiiUHt  Ijc  called,  for  wanli 


h 


336  jy  KK  WA/.r  wnirMAS, 

of  a  better  term,  a  sense  of  ituinurtality.  Thin  is  not  an  Intel* 
Icctual  conviction,  stich  as  that  in  any  riglit-angk-d  triangle  the 
8(iiiares  of  the  siilcs  that  contain  the  right  angle  are  together  e<itial 
to  tiie  s(|tiarc  of  the  side  that  subtends  the  right  angle  ;  or  that 
the  three  angles  of  any  triangle  are  together  eiiual  to  two  right 
angles  ;  or  that  twice  two  eciuals  lonr  ;  it  is  far  nuirc  simple  and 
elementary,  and  could  better  be  compared  to  the  certainty  of 
distinct  individuality  wliicii  comes  with  and  belongs  to  self* 
coiiscionsncss. 

5.  Accompanying  the  rest  of  the  experience,  as  described, 
there  comes  to  the  person  an  intellectual  competency  not  simply 
surpassing  the  old  but  on  a  new  and  higher  plane. 

6.  Along  with  the  subjective  exi)ericn(e  here-above  attempted 
to  be  described  there  is  a  change  in  the  appearance  of  the  person 
undergoing  the  experience.  'I'his,  as  I  have  never  seen  it,  I  can- 
not fully  describe,  but  it  is  said  that  the  face  of  such  a  person  is 
changed,  lit  up,  transfigured,  spiritualized  to  an  extraordinary 

degree. 

VIII. 

It  must  be  understood  that  all  cases  of  cosmic  consciousness 
are  not  on  the  same  j)lane.  Or  if  we  speak  of  simple  consciousness, 
self-consciousness  and  cosmic  consciousness  as  each  occupying  a 
])lane,  then,  as  the  range  of  self-consciousness  on  its  jjlane 
(where  one  man  may  be  an  Aristotle,  a  (.'icsar,  a  Newton,  or  a 
Comte,  while  his  neighbor  on  the  next  street  may  be  intellectually 
and  morally,  to  all  appearance,  little  if  any  above  the  animal  in 
his  stable)  is  far  greater  than  the  range  of  simple  consciousness 
/>/  any  givfn  species  on  its,  so  we  nuist  suppose  that  the  range  of 
cosmic  consciousness  is  greater  than  that  of -elf-consciousness,  and 
it  probably  is  very  much  greater  both  in  kind  and  degree :  that 
is  to  say,  given  a  world  peopled  with  men  having  cosmic  con- 
sciousness, they  would  vary  both  in  the  way  of  greater  and  less 
intellectual  ability,  and  greater  and  less  moral  and  spiritual  ele- 
vation, and  also  in  the  way  of  variety,  of  character,  more  than 
would  the  inhabitants  of  a  planet  on  the  plane  of  self-conscious- 
ness. Within  the  plane  of  cosmic  consciousness  one  man  shall 
be  a  god ;  another  shall  not  be,  to  casual  observation,  lifted  so 


WAIT   WHITMAN  AM>   TIIK  COSMIC  SKS'SK. 


337 


I  an  Intel- 
innglc  the 
■lhcrc(iiuil 
c ;  or  that 
I  two  right 
limplf  ami 
.•rtainiy  of 
gs  to  self- 

ilfscrilu'il, 
not  simply 

attempted 

tiic  person 

n  it,  I  cun- 

a  person  is 

traordinary 


insciousness 
isciousncss, 
jctiipyiiiK  a 
1    its  plane 
owton,  or  a 
itellectually 
e  animal  in 
msciousncss 
ic  range  of 
)usness,  and 
egree :  that 
osmic  con- 
er  and  less 
)iritual  ele^ 
more  than 
f-conscious- 
e  man  shall 
)n,  lifted  so 


very  much  above  ordinary  htnnanity,  however  nuu  h  his  inward 
life  may  be  exalted,  strengthened  inil  ptiririod  by  tlie  new  sense. 
But  as  the  self-conscious  man  (however  dcgrailed)  is  in  fact 
almost  infinitely  above  the  animal  with  merely  sim|)le  conscious- 
ness, so  is  any  man  witli  the  cosmic  sense  almost  infinitely  higher 
and  nobler  than  any  man  who  is  self  conscious  merely.  And  not 
only  so,  but  the  man  who  has  had  the  cosmic  sense  for  even  a 
few  moments  only  will  probably  never  again  descend  to  the 
si)iritual  level  of  the  merely  self-conscious,  but  twenty,  thirty  or 
forty  years  afterwards  will  still  feel  within  him  the  jnirifying, 
strengthening  and  exalting  effect  of  that  divine  illumination,  and 
those  about  him  will  recognize  that  his  spiritual  stature  is  above 

that  of  ordinary  men. 

IX. 

Wliile  its  true  nature  h.ns  been  entirely  unapprehended,  the 
fat/ o{  cosmic  consciousness  has  been  long  recognized  both  in  the 
Eastern  and  Western  Worlds,  and  me  great  m.ijority  of  civilized 
men  and  women  in  all  countries  to-day  bow  down  before  teachers 
who  possessed,  and  because  they  possessed,  the  cosmic  sense  ; 
for  among  those  who  have  been  thus  endowed  were  Ciuatama  the 
Buddha,  Jesus  the  Christ,  Paul,  and  Mohammed ;  and  it  is 
entirely  because  tiiey  were  so  that  these  men  have  been  enabled 
to  found  the  religions,  and  become  the  leaders,  of  the  civilized 
world  for  the  last  two  thousand  years. 

From  the  time  of  (niatama  to  the  time  of  Mohammed  was 
some  thirteen  hundred  years,  and  from  the  time  of  the  latter 
until  to-day  eleven  hundred  years.  As  far  as  my  researches  have 
yet  gone  we  have,  to  fill  up  the  latter  gap,  four  great  names,  the 
owners  of  which  also  possessed  the  faculty  in  question — Dant6, 
Las  Casas,  Balzac  and  Whitman.  Then  for  the  present  day 
the  writer  of  these  pages  knows,  and  knows  of,  ten  men,  either 
living  or  recently  dead,  all  of  whom  had  the  faculty  in  ques- 
tion. 

Of  course,  it  will  be  understood  that  the  eighteen  men  here 
specified  must  be  a  very  small  fraction  of  the  total  number  who 
within  the  last  twenty-five  hundred  years  have  possessed  the  cosmic 
sense.     I  have  no  doubt  I  shall  myself  find  many  others  if  I  live 

22 


/•  • 


338 


IN  RE  WALT   WHITMAN. 


to  pursue  the  present  inquiry  a  few  more  years ;  but  these  are  all 

I  know  of  at  present,  and  my  reasoning  to-day  must  rest  on  them. 

Another  thing :   it  is  not  possible  within  my  present  limits  to 

give  proof  that  the  men  named  had  what  I  here  call  the  cosmic 

sense.     This  will   be  adiluced  later.     In   the   meantime  I  ask 

my  readers  to  take  my  word  for  it  that  these  men  possessed  this 

faculty. 

X. 

As  stated  above,  the  cosmic  sense  comes,  when  at  all,  suddenly, 

and  often  the  exact  hour  is  clearly  indicated  by  the  records,  as  in 

the  cases  of  Guatama,  Paul,  Mohammed,  Whitman  and  others  I 

could  name.     But  even  when  tliis  is  not  true,  in  all  the  eighteen 

cases  above  referred  to  the  oncoming  of  the  new  faculty  can  be 

fixed  within  very  narrow  limits,  and  I  am  able  to  state,  without 

fear  of  material  error,  that  the  ages  at  which  cosmic  consciousness 

declared  itself  in  the  above  eighteen  men  were :   in  three  at  the 

age  of  thirty  years,  in  three  at  thirty-two,  in  one  at  thirty-three, 

in  two  at  thirty-four,  in  four  at  thirty-five,  in  one  at  thirty-seven, 

in  two  at  thirty-eight,  in  one  at  thirty-nine,  in  one  at  forty.     I 

will  not  now  dwell  on  this  most  important  fact  (/.  <•.,  the  age  of 

the  oncoming  of  cosmic  consciousness)  further  than  to  point  out 

that  it  is  exactly  as  it  ought  to  be,  if  the  theory  of  the  new  sense 

as  here  set  forth  is  correct. 

XI. 

It  seems  that  every,  or  nearly  every,  man  who  enters  into  cos- 
mic consciousness  is  at  first  more  or  less  alarmed,  doubting 
whether  the  new  sense  m  iy  not  be  a  symptom  or  form  of  insanity. 
Mohammed  was  greatly  alarmed,  I  think  it  is  clear  that  Paul 
was,  and  I  could  name  others  who  were  similarly  affected. 

The  first  thing  each  person  asks  himself  upon  experiencing  the 
new  sense  is :  does  what  I  see  and  feel  represent  reality  or  am  I 
suffering  from  a  delusion?  The  f;ict  that  the  new  exi)erience 
seems  even  more  real  than  the  old  teachings  of  consciousness 
and  self-consciousness  does  not  at  first  fully  reassure  him,  because 
he  probably  knows  that  delusions  possess  the  mind  just  as  firmly 
as  actual  facts.  True  or  not  true,  each  person  who  has  the  ex- 
perience in  question  eventually  believes  its  teachings,  accepting 


WALT  WHITMAN  AND   THE  COSMIC  SENSE. 


339 


ters  into  cos- 


them  as  absolutely  as  any  other  teachings  whatsoever.  This, 
however,  would  not  prove  them  true,  since  the  same  might  be 
said  of  the  delusions  of  the  insane. 

How,  then,  shall  we  know  that  this  is  a  new  sense,  revealing 
fact,and  not  a  form  of  insanity,  plunging  its  subject  into  delu- 
sion ?  In  the  first  place,  the  tendencies  of  the  condition  iro 
question  are  entirely  unlike,  even  opposite  to,  those  of  i  cntali 
alienation,  these  last  being  distinctly  a-moral,  or  even  immoral, 
while  the  former  are  moral  in  a  high  degree.  In  the  second 
place  it  is  well  to  bear  in  mind  that  all  human  civilization  (speak- 
ing broadly)  rests  on  the  teachings  of  the  new  sense.  The  masters 
are  taught  by  it,  and  the  rest  of  the  world  by  them,  so  that,  if 
what  is  here  called  cosmic  consciousness  is  a  form  of  insanity,  we 
are  confronted  by  the  terrible  fact  (were  it  not  an  absurdity)  that 
our  civilization,  including  all  our  highest  religions,  rests  oni 
delusion.  But,  in  the  third  place,  far  from  granting  such  an^ 
awful  alternative,  it  can  be  maintained  that  we  have  the  same 
evidence  of  the  objective  reality  which  corresponds  to  this 
faculty  as  we  have  of  the  reality  which  tallies  any  other  sense  or 
faculty  whatever.  For  iiistance  :  I  know  that  the  tree  across  the 
field  is  real  and  not  an  illusion,  because  all  other  persons  having 
the  sense  of  sight  to  whom  I  have  spoken  about  it  see  it,  while 
if  it  were  an  illusion  it  would  be  visible  to  no  one  but  myself. 
By  the  same  method  of  reasoning  do  we  establish  the  reality 
corresponding  to  cosmic  consciousness.  Each  person  wIk*  has 
the  faculty  is  by  it  made  aware  of  essentially  the  same  fact  or 
facts.  If  three  men  looked  at  the  tree  and  were  half  an  iiour  after- 
wards asked  to  draw  or  describe  it,  the  three  drafts  or  descriptions  • 
would  not  tally  in  detail  but  in  general  outline  would  correspond. 
Just  in  the  same  way  do  the  reports  of  those  who  have,  or  who  • 
have  had,  cosmic  consciousness  correspond  in  all  essentials, 
though  in  details  they  may  more  or  less  diverge.  So,  I  do  not 
know  any  instance  of  a  person  who  has  been  "illuminated" 
denying  or  disputing  the  teachings  of  another  who  has  been 
through  the  same  experience.  Paul,  as  soon  as  he  attained  to 
cosmic  consciousness,  saw  that  the  teachings  of  Jesus  were  true. 
So  Mohammed  accepted  Jesus  as  not  only  tlie  greatest  of  the 


I 

i 

t 


i40 


li\  Kh:    WAIT    WIIITMAW 


l>n)p)uts  but  US  slaniliiig  on  ;t  piano  tlislinilly  nhove  that  uphn 
wlui  h  sloiul  A(l;\m,  Nt»;\h,  Moses  a\u\  the  irst.  So  Wnll  Whit- 
n\,in  ;\rropts  (I\o  (oarliinn  of  MtiiMha,  Jesus,  I'anl  nnd  of  Moliniu- 
med  ;  (\n«l  if,  ns  ho  onro  \visl\ci1,  the  great  nKislors  otHiliI  return 
rtnil  study  luni,  toothing  is  uum*  rcri  un  tlum  that  tlu-y  would 
i.\w\\  and  all  ar<epi  liiin  a?  a  "  luoihe;  of  the  rndiai\t  snnuuit." 
So  all  the  men  I  have  known  who  h;.ve  the  favulty  agree  in  nil 
essentials  with  one  another  and  with  all  past  teachers  who  have 
ftlso  had  it. 

XII. 

The  host  example  the  world  has  so  far  had  of  what  Ualzar 
calls  a  "  Spenalist  "  i".  Walt  Whitman — the  best,  heeause  he  is 
the  n^an  in  whom  ll,e  new  fai  nliy  has  been,  probably,  most  per- 
le«  tly  developed.  ai\d  espeiially  beeauseheis,  par  exeellenie,  the 
nv\n  who  in  modern  times  has  written  distinctly  n.d  at  large 
lVon\  the  point  of  view  of  the  cosmic  sense*  nnd  in  so  doing  has 
irferrod  to  th*  farts  and  phenomena  of  cosmic  ctinsciousness 
inoie  plainly  and  fully  than  any  other  writer  either  ancient  or 
modern. 

Walt  Whitman  tells  us  plaiidy,  though  not  as  fully  .ts  could  he 
wished,  of  the  moment  when  he  attained  illumination,  and  again 
low.nd  the  end  of  his  life  of  its  passing  awav.  Not  that  1  in»- 
agine  that  he  had  ci»snuc  consciousness  co\ilinuouslv  for  years, 
but  that  I  suppose  it  canu*  less  ami  less  frequently  as  age  advanc.  .1, 
probably  lasted  less  and  less  long  at  a  (into,  and  tlecreased  in 
viviilness  and  intensity. 

Moreover,  in  the  case  of  Walt  Whitntan  we  have  the  man  with- 
*>ut  ilie  cosmic  sense,  /".  c,  before  it  appeared,  atid  aiU'rwards, 
nnd  so  (better  than  in  ai^y  other  case,  except,  perhaps,  that  o( 
Halz.u)  iwn  »ompare  the  man  with  his  earlier  self.  1  mean  that 
we  have  a  series  of  writings*   by   Wall    Whitman    l)eft)re   his 


"1  rtlludo.  i>f  oovnse,  rmiooinllv  to  "IUmIIi  in  n  Sih.iol  rmuu,"  1841; 
"Wild  Firtnk'n  Kciurn."  i  1. ;  "  Hcniuuo  01  KiuIum  nml  Son,"  id. ;  "  I'lie 
Ton'h  HloMom's."  1S41;  "The  I  i\M  of  Iho  Snoifd  Army."  id.;  "  IT.c  I'liild 
fihoit.  ,\  Sloiy  ot  tl\o  l.HHt  I,oy;\li'<t,"  id.  •.  "  I'lu'  Alljjol  of  IVhih,"  id.  ;  "  Uo- 
vcn^;c  .\iul  Ke»juil.\l,"  1845;  "A  l>iidin;uc,"  id.  j  \c. 


WALT   WHir,MAy  AM)    TUF.    COSMtC  NluXSK. 


.14  » 


^e  that  nphn 
)  WnU  Wl\it- 
\  of  Mi)hnm- 
«o\tUl  rotnrn 
I  thoy  \\'o\M 
,nt  summit." 
agree  in  nil 
era  who  Imvc 


\v\v.\{  \\i\\rav 
hciuuHO  ho  is 
)ly,  tuost  per- 

XiOlloUt  c,  \\\c 

n  .,»  :\[  large 
I  BO  doing  lu»9 
ronsciousncss  '~ 
lor  ancient  or 

ly  ns  ro\>lil  he 
on,  and  again 
Not  tliat  1  iin- 
isly  for  years, 
age  advanr.  ,1, 
tleereasod   in 

\c  man  witlw 

aOerwanls, 

laps,  that  of 

1  mean  that 

ii\    heforc   his 


vi>i>m,"    1841  ; 
iin,"  ill. !  "  The 
'•■\\\v  niil.\ 


iUuminatioM  as  well  as  the  series,  heginning  with  the  fiisl,  1.S55, 
edition  of  "  Leaves  of  drass,"  prodnced  afterwards. 

We  expet  I  and  always  lind  a  diflerem  e  hetween  a  man's  early 
and  his  niattire  writings.  What  an  interval,  for  instanee,  hetween 
Shelley's  ron\an<  es  an«l  the  ('enei ;  hetween  Maiaulay's  earliest 
Mssays  and  the  Ilislory  t  Hut  here  is  something  ipiite  apart  from 
those  rases.  We  1  an  trare  a  gradti.d  evolution  of  power  IVom 
/.atrozzi  to  l«",pipsy«hidion,  IVom  Mat  atilay's  "  Milton  "  to  his 
"  Massacre  of  (llen<  in-."  Put  in  the  case  i)f  Walt  Whitn^an  (as  in 
that  of  Halzac)  writings  of  ahsohitely  no  value  were  immediately 
followed  hy  pages  across  each  of  which  in  letters  of  ethereal  file 
are  written  the  woids  "  Kri-'UNAi.  iiiK, ;  "  [)age3  covered  im)1  only 
by  tt  mastcrpiei  e,  hut  hy  such  vital  seiUeuces  as  have  not  heen 
written  ten  linu's  in  the  history  of  the  race.  I(  is  upon  this  in- 
stantaneous evolution  of  the  'IVian  from  the  man,  this  profound 
mystery  of  the  atlainmei\t  of  the  "  Kingdom  of  Heaven,"  that 
I  desire,  if  possihle,  to  throw  siunc  light. 

Ami  it  is  interesting  to  remark  here  that,  so  far  as  I  1  ;in  judge 
from  my  knowledge  of  Whitman  personally,  and  from  a  profouiul 
st»uly  of  his  writings  pursued  for  over  a  ipiarter  of  a  t  entury,  he 
had  as  little  idea  as  had  Muddha.  I'aul  or  Moh.innned  what  it  was 
that  gave  him  the  mental  power,  the  moral  elevation,  ai\d  the 
percni\ial  joyousness  which  are  the  rharaeleristies  of  the  slate  to 
which  he  attaine»l  and  which  seems  to  have  heen  to  him  the  sub- 
ject of  conlimied  amazement. 

tjet  us  see  m)w  what  this  man  savs  about  this  cosmic  sense,  which 
must  have  eonie  to  him  when  he  was  between  the  ages  of  thirty  one 
and  thirly-fotir  years — I  suppose  at  the  age  of  thirty-two  or  thirty- 
three.  'I'he  first  direct  menlicuiofit  is  on  p.  i^of  the  iH^jcedition 
of  "  Leaves  of  Crass  " — that  is  to  say,  it  is  on  the  third  page  of 
his  first  writing  after  the  lunv  fac  ulty  had  tome  tt)  him.  The  lines 
arc  ftumtl  essentially  tmallereil  in  every  snbseipient  etliliiui.  fii 
the  last,  i8t)i-99  edititui,  they  arc  upon  p.  _p.  I  t|UMic.  of 
course,  from  the  '55  edition,  since  !  want  to  get  as  near  to  Whit- 
ntan  at  the  moment  of  writing  the  words  as  possible,     lie  says: 

•'  I  lipliovp  in  ymi  mv  si'iil  ....  iIip  ullirr  I  nin  miisl  imt  nlmte  ilspjf  tn  yoii» 
And  you  tnuRt  nut  be  nlmgcil  ttj  (lie  udier, 


.«iimiiiitniimmi>  '>*" " 


342 


JN  RE  WALT  WHITMAN. 


Loafe  with  me  on  the  grass  ....  loose  the  stop  from  your  throat, 

Not  words,  not  music  or  rhyme  I  want ....  not  custom  or  lecture,  not  even 

the  best, 
Only  the  lull  I  like,  the  hum  of  your  valved  voice, 

I  mind  how  we  lay  in  June,  such  a  transparent  summer  morning ; 
You  settled  your  head  athwart  my  hips  and  gently  turned  over  upon  me. 
And  parted  the  shirt  from  my  bosom-bone,  and  plunged  your  tongue  to  my 

barestiipt  heart. 
And  reached  till  you  felt  my  beard,  and  reached  till  you  held  my  feet. 

Swiftly  arose  and  spread  around  me  the  peace  and  joy  and  knowledge  that 

pass  all  the  art  and  argument  of  the  earth ; 
And  I  know  that  the  hand  of  God  is  the  elder  hand  of  my  own. 
And  I  know  that  the  spirit  of  God  is  the  eldest  brother  of  my  own. 
And  that  all  the  men  ever  born  are  also  my  brothers  ....  and  the  women 

my  sisters  and  lovers, 
And  that  a  kelson  of  the  creation  is  love." 

The  new  experience  came  in  June,  probably  in  1853,  when  he 
had  just  entered  upon  his  thirty-fifth  year.  Of  it  he  says :  I  be- 
lieve in  its  teachings,  although,  however,  it  is  so  divine  the  other 
I  am  (the  old  self)  must  not  be  abased  to  it,  neither  must  it  ever 
he  overridden  by  the  more  basic  organs  and  faculties.  Then  he 
says  :  Stay  with  me,  loafe  with  me  on  the  grass,  instruct  me,  speak 
out  what  you  mean,  what  is  in  you,  no  matter  about  speaking 
musically  or  poetically  or  according  to  the  rules,  but  just  use  your 
own  language  in  your  own  way.  He  then  turns  back  to  tell  of  the 
exact  occurrence  ;  the  experience  came  one  June  mo'-ning ;  the 
new  sense  took,  though  gently,  absolute  possession  :  f  him,  at 
least  for  the  time ;  his  heart,  he  says,  henceforth  received  its  in- 
struction from  the  new  comer,  the  new  self,  whose  tongue,  he 
says,  was  plunged  to  his  bare-stript  heart,  and  bis  life  became 
subject  to  its  dictation— /V  held  his  feet.  Finally,  he  tells  in 
brief  of  the  change  wrought  in  his  mind  and  heart  by  the  birth 
within  him  of  the  new  faculty.  He  says  that  he  was  filled  all  at 
once  with  peace  and  joy  and  knowledge  transcending  all  the  art 
and  argument  of  the  earth.  He  attained  that  point  of  view  from 
which  only  can  a  human  being  sej  something  of  God  (''  which 
alone,"  says  Balzac,  "can  explain  God" — which  point  unless 
heattain  "  he  cannot  see,"  says  Jesus,  "  the  kingdom  of  God  "). 


WALT  WHITMAN  AND  THE  COSMIC  SENSE. 


343 


'  And  he  sums  up  the  account  by  the  statement  that  God  is  his 
clooO  friend,  that  all  the  men  and  women  ever  born  are  his 
brothers  and  sisters  and  lovers,  and  that  the  whole  creation  is 
built  and  rests  upon  love. 

Here  we  have  essentially  the  same  set  of  phenomena  found  in 
all  other  cases  of  the  oncoming  of  the  cosmic  sense : 

1.  ine  subjective  light,  however,  seen  by  Paul,  Mohammed 
and  others  that  I  could  name,  was  wanting,  at  least  record  of  it 
is  wanting — unless  the  words,  quoted  later,  *'  O  heaven  !  what 
flash,"  refers  to  it. 

2.  But  we  have  the  specific,  almost  violent,  mental  expansion 
occurring  at  a  definite  place  and  moment. 

3.  Strongly  marked  moral  exaltation. 

4.  And  as  strongly  marked  intellectual  illumination,  as  de- 
clared in  the  passage  quoted,  and  as  amply  proved  by  the  rest 
of  the  volume. 

5.  A  conviction  of  continuous  life  so  clear  and  strong  as  to 
anio''"t  to  a  sense  of  immortality  fully  shown  in  same  volume. 

6.  The  extinction — if  he  ever  had  them,  which  is  doubtful — 
of  the  sense  of  sin  and  the  fear  of  death. 

Those  who  so  far  have  been  endowed  with  cosmic  conscious- 
ness have  been,  almost  to  a  man,  carried  away  and  subjugated 
by  it ;  they  have  looked  upon  it — probably  most  of  them — as 
being  a  preterhuman,  more  or  less  supernatural,  faculty  separat- 
ing them  from  ordinary  men.  They  have  almost,  if  not  quite., 
always  sought  to  help  men,  for  their  moral  sense  has  been  inev- 
itably purified  and  elevated  by  the  oncoming  of  the  new  sense  to 
an  extraordinary  degree ;  but  they  have  not  realized  the  need, 
nor,  I  suppose,  felt  the  possibility  of  using  their  extraordinary  in- 
sight and  power  in  any  systematic  manner.  That  is,  the  man 
has  not  mastered,  taken  possession  of  and  used  the  new  faculty, 
but  has  been  (on  the  contrary)  largely  or  entirely  mastered  and 
used  by  it.  I  think  this  was  clearly  the  case  with  Paul,  who  was 
Ifed  away  by  the  grandeur  and  glory  of  the  new  sense  to  under- 
rate the  really  equal  divinity  of  his  previous  human  faculties. 
Perhaps  the  same  words  could  with  equal  trntli  be  applied  to  the 
case  of  Guatama.     It  may  be  that  Walt  Whitman  is  the  first  man 


!iia!ii»'.jy'iM< 


■ 


If 


i 


344 


IN  BE   WALT  WHIT3fAN. 


who,  having  the  faculty  in  a  marked  manner,  deliberately  set 
himself  against  being  thus  mastered  by  it — determining,  on  the 
contrary,  to  subdue  it  and  make  it  the  servant — along  with  con- 
sciousness, self-consciousness  and  the  rest — of  the  united,  indi- 
vidual SELF.  He  saw,  what  neither  Guatama  nor  Paul  saw,  what 
Jesus  saw,  though  not,  I  think,  so  clearly  as  he,  that  though 
this  faculty  is  truly  godlike,  yet  it  is  no  more  supernatural  or 
preternatural  than  sight,  hearing,  taste,  feeling,  or  any  other, 
and  he  consequently  refused  to  give  it  unlimited  sway,  and 
would  not  allow  it  to  tyrannize  over  the  rest.  He  believes  in  it, 
but  he  says  the  other  self,  the  old  self,  must  not  abase  itself  to 
the  new — neither  must  the  new  be  encroached  upon  or  limited 
by  the  old ;  he  will  see  that  they  live  as  friendly  co-workers  to- 
gether. And  I  may  say  here  that  whoever  does  not  realize  this 
last  clause  will  never  fully  understand  the  "  Leaves." 

The  next  reference  made  by  Walt  Whitman  to  cosmic  con- 
sciousness, which  I  shall  at  present  refer  to,  is  in  "The  Prayer 
of  Columbus."  page  323,  1891-2  ed.  This  poem  was  written 
about  1874-5,  when  the  condition  of  the  poor,  sick,  neglected, 
spiritual  explorer  was  strikingly  similar  to  that  of  the  great  geo- 
graphical explorer  shipwrecked  on  the  Antillean  Island  in  1503, 
at  which  time  and  place  the  prayer  is  supposed  to  be  offered  up. 
Walt  Whitman  (he  has  done  the  same  thing  a  thousand  times) 
used  this  agreement  of  circumstance  to  put  his  own  words  into 
the  mouth  of  the  other  man.  These  words  refer  to  his  own  life, 
work,  fortunes — to  himself.  In  this  poem  he  alludes  specific- 
ally and  pointedly  to  the  matter  now  under  consideration. 
Speaking  to  God,  he  says : 

"  Thou  knowest  my  manhood's  solemn  and  visionary  meditations." 

"  O,  I  am  sure  they  really  came  from  Thee, 
The  urge,  the  ardor,  the  unconquerable  will, 
The  potent,  felt,  interior  command,  stronger  than  words, 
A  message  from  the  Heavens  whispering  to  me  even  in  sleep, 
These  sped  me  on." 

"  One  effort  mere,  my  altar  this  bleak  s:\nd ; 
That  Thou,  O  God,  my  life  hast  lighted, 


irately  set 
ig,  on  the 
with  con- 
ited,  indi- 
saw,  what 
at  though 
natural  or 
any  other, 
sway,  and 
ieves  in  it, 
se  itself  to 
or  limited 
workers  to- 
real  ize  this 

osmic  con- 
The  Prayer 
vas  written 
neglected, 
!  great  geo- 
nd  in  1503, 
offered  up. 
;and  times) 
words  into 
is  own  life, 
es  specific- 
isideration. 


lions. 


ep» 


WALT  WHITMAN  AND  THE  COSMIC  SENSE.  345 

With  ray  of  light,  steady,  ir..  iTable,  vouchsafed  of  Thee, 

Light  rare,  untellable,  lighting  the  very  light, 

Beyond  nil  signs,  descriptions,  languages; 

For  that,  C  God,  be  it  my  latest  word,  here  on  my  knees. 

Old,  poor,  and  paralyzed,  I  thank  Thee." 

"  My  hands,  my  limbs  grow  nerveless. 
My  brain  feels  rack'd,  bewilder'd. 
Let  the  old  timbers  part,  I  will  not  part, 
I  will  cling  fast  to  Thee,  O  God,  though  the  waves  buffet  me, 
Thee,  Thee  at  least  I  know." 

At  the  time  of  writing  these  lines  Walt  Whitman  is  fifty-five  or 
fifty-six  years  of  age.  For  over  twenty  years  he  has  been  guided 
by  this  (seeming)  supernatural  illuminatioii.  He  has  yielded 
freely  to  it  and  obeyed  its  behests  as  being  from  God  himself. 
He  has  loved  the  earth,  sun,  animals,  despised  riches,  given  alms 
to  every  one  that  asked,  stood  up  for  the  stupid  and  crazy,  de- 
voted his  income  and  labor  to  others  as  commanded  by  the  di- 
vine voice  and  as  impelled  by  the  divine  impulse,  and  now  for 
reward  he  is  poor,  sick,  paralysed,  despised,  neglected,  dying. 
His  message  to  man,  to  the  delivery  of  which  he  has  devoted  his 
life,  which  has  been  dearer  in  his  eyes  (for  man's  sake)  than 
wife,  children,  life  itself,  is  unread  or  scoffed  and  jeered  at. 
What  shall  he  say  to  God?  He  says  that  Cod  knows  him 
through  and  through,  and  that  he  is  willing  to  leave  himself  in 
God's  hands.  He  says  he  does  not  know  men  nor  his  own 
work,  and  so  does  not  judge  what  men  may  do  with  or  say  to 
the  "  Leaves."  But  he  says  he  does  know  God,  and  will  cling 
to  him  "  though  the  waves  buffet  me."  Then  about  the  inspira- 
tion, the  illumination,  the  "  potent,  felt,  interior  command 
stronger  than  words " — he  is  sure  that  this  comes  from  God. 
He  has  no  doubt,  there  can  be  no  doubt,  of  that. 

He  goes  on  to  speak  of  the  "ray  of  light,  steady,  ineffable," 
with  which  God  has  lighted  his  life,  and  says  it  is  "rare,  untell- 
able, beyond  all  signs,  descriptions,  languages."  And  this  (be  it 
well  remembered)  is  not  the  utterance  of  wild  enthusiasm,  but 
of  cold,  hard  fact  by  a  worn-out  old  man  on,  as  he  supposed,  his 
death-bed.  • 


J46  I^  ^E  WALT  WHITMAN. 

The  next  direct  allusion  to  cosmic  consciousness  to  be  noted 
may  be  found  on  p.  403  of  the  1891-2  edition  of  the  "Leaves." 
It  is  embodied  in  a  poem  written  June,  1888,  when  he  again  (and 
-with  good  reason)  supposed  himself  dying.  The  present  writer 
was  with  him  at  the  time  and  knows  exactly  how  the  case  stood. 
The  poem  is  called  "  Now  Precedent  Songs  Farewell,"  and  was 
written  as  a  hasty  good-by  to  the  "  Leaves"  and  to  the  world. 
Toward  the  end  of  the  poem,  bidding  his  songs  good-by,  he 
alludes  to  them  itnd  their  origin  in  the  following  words : 

-"  O  heaven  !   what  flash  and  started  endless  train  of  all  I    Compared  indeed 
to  that ! 
What  wretched  shred  e'en  at  the  best  of  all !  " 

He  says :  Compared  to  the  flash,  the  divine  illumination  from 
which  they  sprang,  how  poor  and  worthless  his  poems  are.  And 
it  must  be  borne  in  mind  that  Whitman  never  had  a  bad  opinion 
of  the  "  Leaves."  I  have  heard  him  say  more  than  once  that 
none  of  us — referr'ng  to  W.  D.  O'Connor,  John  Burroughs,  my- 
self and  other  out-and-out  admirers — thought  as  highly  of  them 
•as  he  did.  But  thinking  that  way  of  them  he  could  still  say 
how  poor  they  were  compared  to  the  illumination  from  which 
they  sprang.  This  last  quoted  passage  may  be  compared  with 
another  in  a  quite  early  poem,  "A  Song  of  the  Rolling  Earth" 
.(p.  179,  1 89 1-2  edition).     In  it  he  says: 

"  When  I  undertake  to  tell  the  best  I  6nd  I  cannot, 
My  tongue  is  ineflectual  on  its  pivots, 
My  breath  will  nut  be  obedient  to  its  organs, 
I  become  a  dumb  man." 

And  these,  with  still  another  from  a  poem  with  the  significant 
title  "Who  Learns  My  Lesson  Complete  "  (p.  304),  as  follows: 

••'  I  lie  abstracted  and  hear  beautiful  tales  of  things  and  the  reasons  of  things, 
They  are  so  beautiful  I  nudge  myself  to  listen. 

I  cannot  say  to  any  person  what  I  hear — I  cannot  say  it  to  myself — it  is 
very  wonderful." 

So  Paul  said  that  he  had  "  heard  unspeakable  words." 


be  noted 
Leaves." 
igain  (and 
ent  writer 
;ase  stood. 
"  and  was 
the  world. 
)od-by,  he 
is: 

pared  indeed 


lation  from 
i  are.    And 
bad  opinion 
n  once  that 
roughs,  my- 
hly  of  them 
iild  still  say 
from  which 
Tipared  with 
ling  Earth" 


WALT  WHITMAN  AND  THE  COSMIC  SENSE. 


347 


le  significant 
),  as  follows: 

sons  of  things, 

|to  myself— it  is 

rds." 


But  Walt  Whitman  did  not  die  in  June,  1888;  he  rallied  and 
again  (it  seems)  from  time  to  time  the  vision  appeared  and  the 
voice  whisper- d.  Doubtless  the  vision  grew  more  dim,  and  the 
voice  less  distinct,  as  time  passed  and  the  feebleness  of  age  and 
sickness  grew.  At  last,  in  1891,  at  the  age  of  seventy-two,  they 
finally  departed,  and  in  those  mystic  lines  "To  the  Sunset 
Breeze"  (p.  414),  which  the  Harpers  returned  tc  .im  as  a 
"  mere  improvisation,"  he  bids  it  farewell.     He  say* : 

"  Thou  hast,  O  Nature !    elements !   utterance  to  my  heart  beyond  the  rest— 
and  this  is  of  them." 

"  Thou  art  Spiritual,  Godly,  most  of  all  known  to  my  sense. 

Minister  to  speak  to  nie  here  and  now,  what  word  has  never  told,  and 

cannot  tell, 
Art  thou  not  universal  concrete's  distillation  ?  " 

And  so  the  Sunset  Breeze  passed,  the  Spiritual  Illummation 
passed,  and  shortly  after  1'^?  passed,  and  earth  lost  the  last  and 
greatest  of  the  prophets. 


I    1 


u 


I 


; 


And  yet  Whitman,  though  he  cries  out  for  "muscle  and  pluck,"  untainted 
flesh  and  clear  eyes,  is  very  far  from  being  a  mere  lover  of  coarse  material 
pleasures.  He  is  a  r»^  '.,  and  that  says  enough.  His  eye  sees  beauty,  his  ear 
hears  music.  All  thing?  grow  lovely  under  his  haml ;  deformity,  ugliness,  and 
all  things  miserable  and  vile  disappear.  His  touch  transmutes  them.  I  have 
said  he  is  elemental,  and  more  than  once  the  wonder  he  expresses  at  the  sight 
of  Nature  transforming  things  loathsome  into  beauty  by  her  own  sweet  alchemy 
excites  the  thought  that  this  poet  desires  to  exert  the  same  influence. 

No  poet  since  Shakspere  has  written  with  a  vocabulary  so  fruitful. 
Words  the  most  erudite  and  remote,  words  not  quite  naturalized  from  foreign 
countries,  words  used  by  the  lowest  of  the  people,  teem  in  his  work, 
.  yet  without  afl"ectation.  You  can  take  away  no  word  that  he  uses  and 
substitute  another  without  spoiling  the  sense  and  marring  the  melody.  For 
where  Whitman  seems  roughest,  rudest,  most  prosaic,  there  often  is  his  lan- 
guage most  profoundly  melodious. 

^itandish  0' Grady:  "Walt  Whitman,   The  Poet  0/ Joy." 

(348) 


IMMORTALITY. 


By  WALT  WHlTMAff, 


;,"  untainted 
use  material 
auty,  his  car 
U(;iiness,  and 
em.  I  liave 
;s  at  the  sijjht 
veet  alchemy 
ice. 

so  fruitful, 
from  foreign 
in  his  work, 
he  uses  and 
nelody.  For 
^  is  his  Ian- 

/  o/Joy." 


[For  some  time  after  the  birthday  dinner  of  1890  (May  3i8t,  at  Reisser's, 
rhiladclphia)  Walt  Whitman  knew  nothing  of  the  existence  of  this  report 
of  one  portion  of  his  several  discussions  with  Ingcrsoll  and  others  which 
chanced  that  night.  At  a  late  hour  a  Press  reporter  had  been  introduced 
into  the  room,  and  he  opportunely  caught  this  passage.  Months  afterwards 
Talcoit  Williams  sent  a  copy  of  the  report  to  Whitman  for  revision.  Whit- 
man went  to  work  on  it,  and  gave  it  what  he  described  to  us  as  "about  a  per- 
fect expression  "  of  his  "  views  held  at  the  moment  and  still  adhered  to." 
The  manuscript  was  in  this  shape  returned  to  Mr.  Williams.  When  Whit- 
man was  preparing  his  final  volume,  "  Good-Rye,"  he  endeavored  to  secure 
a  copy  of  the  revi.sed  version  for  publication,  but  for  reasons  towards  which 
Whitman  never  felt  kindly  Mr.  Williams  withheld  the  MS.,  and  would 
give  us  no  further  encouragement  than  in  the  loan  of  the  reporter's  draft. 
This  draft  is  appended.  It  contains  only  two  or  three  changes,  made  by 
W'hitman  himself,  and  is  given  in  lieu  of  the  elaborated  draft  only  because 
Mr.  Williams  felt  indisposed  to  allow  Whitman  to  insert  the  matter  in  "  Good- 
Bye,"  and  since  Whitman's  death  has  equally  shown  an  indisposition  to 
have  us  use  it  in  this  book,  although  it  was  Whitman's  own  desire  that  it 
•hould  be  by  this  medium  given  to  the  public. — The  Editors.] 

Colonel  Ingersoll  has  given  me  a  certificate  of  character ; 
and  has  in  some  particulars  re-echoed  what  I  myself  have  said 
and  thought  of  my  own  works.  To  me  the  grandeur  of  the 
things  I  have  tried  to  portray  in  "  Leaves  of  Grass"  is  in  its 
essential  purpose — in  something  understood  ;  something  untold 
but  not  unfelt.  All  that  I  have  attempted  to  glean  for  the  pages 
of  "  Leaves  of  Grass  "  has  been  what  I  have  perceived  of  what 
I  am — of  what  we  all  are,  of  what  the  world  before  us  is.  I  have 
tried  to  show  what  I  could  of  practical,  materialistic,  visible  life, 
with  an  indication  throughout  of  something  behind  it  all.  But 
never  before  have  I  heard,  as  1  did  hear  in  Colonel  IngersoU's 

(349) 


35° 


IN  RE   WALT  WniTilAN. 


remarks,  so  comprehensive  a  criticism,  in  which  every  word  went 
to  the  right  spot. 

It  seems  almost  "  funny  "  to  me  that  any  one  can  go  as  far  as 
he  does  and  not  take  the  next  logical  step.  To  me  the  final  and 
ultimate  purpose  of  everything  is  completed,  as  it  were,  only  by 
the  unknown  futurity  of  immortality.  By  me  this  is  divined, 
acknowledged  ;  of  course  it  is  not  certain,  as,  for  example,  that  I 
see  my  friends  here  with  me  now. 

Next,  I  have  written  to  prepare  for  the  last  step — the  thing 
which  it  is  all  for.  The  forces  of  life  are  like  a  lot  of  locomo- 
tives gathered  together.  Locomotives  are  wonderful  things. 
They  are  a  proof  of  the  advance  of  humanity,  through  intermin- 
able ranges  of  ages.  Yes,  to  me  a  grand  locomotive  is  a  proof 
of  the  advance  of  humanity  for  hundreds  of  thousands  of  years. 
But  what  for  ?     If  there  is  no  hereafter,  what  for  ? 

The  locomotive  is  not  for  itself,  but  for  a  purpose.  In  the 
same  way  you  might  ask  of  "  Leaves  of  Grass,"  what  are  they 
all  for  ? — I  know  what  I  meant  them  for  ;  I  know  what  I  felt  in 
my  heart  or  brain  or  both.  Let  me  say  further  that  Colonel 
Ingersoll  recalls  to  my  mind  the  well-known  story  about  Lin- 
coln's generals.  Somebody  told  the  President  that  the  ablest 
one  among  them  was  an  habitual  drunkard.  "Ah,"  said  Lin- 
coln, "  find  out  what  brand  of  whiskey  he  drink"-  I  want  to 
send  some  of  it  to  the  other  generals." 

Colonel  Ingersoll  justifies  fully  my  method,  my  tricks — my 
method  of  describing  and  appealing.  I  felt  willing  to  keep  the 
roots  of  everything  in  "  Leaves  of  Grass  "  underground,  out  of 
sight,  and  let  the  book  work  its  way.  If  it  grew,  in  verdure  and 
flowerage,  so  much  the  better ;  but  certain  important  results  were 
to  me  the  main  things. 

I  do  not  know,  however,  why  I  have  dwelt  on  all  that.  Pos- 
sibly because  I  never  felt  so  proud,  so  thoroughly  justified,  as  by 
my  friend's  speech  to-night.     I  felt  it  all  through. 

As  a  sort  of  supplement,  I  may  say  that  I  believe  thoroughly 
that  the  main  meaning  of  all  the  material  world  is  the  invisible 
and  spiritual  world,  the  immortality  of  the  future  ;  and  back  of 
it  all  is  what  I  may  call  the  Almighty.     I  accept  the  term,  as 


IMMORTALITY. 


35  « 


meaning  what  I  mean.  I  use  it  of  an  impersonal  deity,  not  of  a 
being  wiio  sits  on  liigh  issuing  lus  orders  "  Do  this  or  that." 
But  I  accept  and  use  it  in  the  only  way  that  I  think  is  consistent 
with  great  modern  thought,  as  the  grandest  justification  of  hu> 
manity;  of  what  the  old  fellows  used  to  call  the  creation,  the 
creation  of  man,  and  by  other  phrases  of  that  kind.  But  they, 
too,  are  all  very  profound,  deep,  wise  in  their  way,  reaching 
down  to  what  humanity  was  then  eligible  to  feel  and  to  under-  ^ 
stand,  Li'»  which  now  seems  almost  ridiculous  to  us  from  our 
point  of  view.  They  knew  probably  five  or  ten  or  twenty  or 
thirty  or  fifty  or  one  hundred  thousand  years  ago — they  knew 
things  that  we  think  we  know  (and  we  do  know  them)  ;  and  the 
conception  was,  as  I  said  a  few  minutes  ago,  very  grand.  They 
also  had  their  presciences — but  I  must  not  be  garrulous. 

.  .  .  I  don't  bother  myself  about  purposes  or  Infinity,  but  un- 
less there  is  something  behind  all  this  outward  life  it  seems  to 
me  there  is  no  justificating  purpose  in  it.  Unless  there  is  a 
definite  object  for  it  all,  what  in  God's  name  is  it  all  for  ? 

[Ingersoll's  reply  to  Whitman's  final  question  was  this:  — 
I  can't  tell.  And  if  there  is  a  purpose,  and  if  there  is  a  God^ 
what  is  it  all  for?  I  can't  tell.  It  looks  like  nonsense  to  me- 
either  way.] 


1  • 


These  are  quite  glorious  things  you  have  sent  me.    Who  is  Walt  (Walter  ?) 
Whitman,  and  is  much  of  him  like  this  ? 

yoAn  Euskin  to  William  Harrison  Riley,  1879. 


Such  influences  as  your:$  are  precisely  what  our  poetry  in  its  latest  develop- 
ments needs  to  make  it  sane  and  masculine. 

Edward  Dow  Jen  to  Wall  Whitman,  1872. 


He  speaks  with  praise  of  the  "  proud  and  melancholy  races,"  and  there  is  a 
very  luxury  of  melancholy  in  his  "  Word  out  of  the  Sea,"  and  the  lone  singer 
on  the  shore  of  Paumanok,  wonderful,  causing  tears.  Strange,  unapprehended 
influences  pour  themselves  into  the  words  of  that  great  poem  which  have  never 
before  found  expression  :  melancholy  as  of  one  surfeited  with  joy,  to  whom 
sorrow  is  now  a  deeper  joy,  woe  with  a  heart  of  delight,  flickering  shadows 
that  seem  to  live  and  hover  beckoning  over  the  scene,  voices  as  from  another 
world,  blank  desolation  which  we  desire  to  be  no  other  than  it  is,  suflering 
and  despair,  though  somehow  it  seems  better  than  they  should  be :  a  poem 
whose  meaning  cannot  be  fathomed,  whose  beauty  cannot  be  fully  tasted — a 
mystic,  unfathomable  song. 


Standish  0' Grady:  "  Walt  Whitman,  The  Poet  of  Joy." 


(352) 


THE  POET  OF  IMMORTALITY. 


Bf  THOMAS  B.  HARNED. 


Walt  Whitman  was  of  a  profoundly  religious  nature  and 
"  Leaves  of  Grass  "  is  a  religious  book.  Whitman  teaches  at  all 
times  a  positive  faith,  and  nowhere  and  never  negation  or  doubt. 
From  his  mother,  to  whom  he  was  devotedly  attached,  he  in- 
herits his  spiritual  qualities.  She  was  one  of  those  "  powerful 
uneducated  "  persons  that  our  poet  always  laid  so  much  stress 
upon.  This  woman,  of  whom  he  said,  "  she  was  the  best  and 
sweetest  woman  I  ever  saw  and  ever  expect  to  see,"  was  un- 
doubtedly a  great  personality.  His  Quaker  ancestry,  in  my  judg- 
ment, dominated  all  other  elements  in  his  character.  He  was 
from  early  childhood  of  a  quiet,  thoughtful  and  kindly  disposi- 
tion, full  of  calm  seriousness  and  powerful  faith.  Undoubtedly, 
long  before  his  life  purpose  had  been  fully  decided  upon,  his 
mind  ran  in  humanitarian  and  spiritual  channels.  This  is  clearly 
seen  in  the  few  "  pieces  in  early  youth"  preserved  and  printed 
in  the  current  edition  of  his  complete  prose  works.  They  breathe 
the  spirit  of  sympathy  and  all  point  a  moral.  In  one  of  his 
earliest  pieces  he  speaks  of  Jesus  as  the  "  beautiful  god  "  and  the 
"divine  youth."  This  veneration  for  the  Nazarene  never  left 
him,  and  however  much  he  may  have  shocked  the  conventional 
Christian  with  "undue  familiarity,"  as  in  his  poem  "To  Him 
That  was  Crucified,"  he  saw  with  unerring  certainty  the  distinc- 
tion between  the  transient  and  permanent  in  the  Christian  system. 
He  has  told  me  more  than  once  that  he  regarded  it  as  of  the  greatest 
credit  to  the  Caucasian  race  that  it  had  accepted  Christ,  how- 
ever imperfect  that  acceptance  may  have  been.  If  to  have  Christ- 
like qualities  is  to  be  a  Christian,  then  it  would  be  difficult  to  select 
a  more  perfect  example  than  Walt  Whitman.  His  gentleness, 
a3  (353) 


"••iww** 


354 


IX  A' A'    WALT   Wit  I  nr  AN. 


uiisolfislmcss,  rliarity.  ami  lovMigness  for  every  living  creature 
were  so  thorougiily  natural  and  spoi.t'neous.  tl^->t  tlio.iv.  »viio  knew 
liirn  personally  luUy  realize  how  perfectly  he  has  placed  a  man 
in  his  bot)k.  I  do  not  agree  with  Dr.  Bucke  in  his  theory  that 
Whitman's  cosmic  consi  iotisness  was  a  sudden  conversion  into  a 
new  spiritual  existence,  whereby  he  was  enabled  to  write  greater 
things  than  theretofore.  I  fumly  believe  that  his  spiritual  life 
was  a  growth,  and  that  "  Leaves  of  (irass  "  was  evolved  from  a 
born  spiritual  genius  passing  from  stage  to  stage,  through  certain 
formative  periods  of  thought,  mifoldiiig  until  he  reached  in  a  per- 
fectly natmal  way  his  ])eriod  of  higlu'st  fruition. 

Whitman  and  his  poems  have  been  treated  from  many  stand- 
points— comradeship,  democracy,  sex,  art,  re'  ^ion.  Because  of 
my  intimate  personal  companionship  with  him  for  the  last  ten 
years  of  his  life,  I  desire  to  add  my  word  on  tVe  subject  of  his 
personal  belief  in  immortality,  asset  forth  in  his  published  writ- 
ings and  personal  utterances.  This  was  the  main  jnjrport  of  his 
life-work— all-inclusi\e — without  which  he  and  his  book  would 
not  be  the  living  force  that  they  are.  For  his  was  something 
more  than  the  faith  of  reason.  He  was  familiar  with  the  ten- 
dencies of  modern  thought  antl  the  wilderness  to  which  it  leads. 
Of  course  his  mind  was  never  befogged  by  any  dogm  .tic  theology. 
His  use  of  the  terms,  God,  Soul,  Immortality,  was  wholly  with- 
out any  ecclesiastical  tinge — yet  they  appear  .ill  through  his  poems. 
"  I  have  no  objection  to  the  use  of  the  word  '  (lod  '  ;  1  u.se  it  and 
like  it,"  he  has  fretjuently  said  to  me.  He  realize*!  so  acutely 
the  presence  of  U.-  infinitely  miraculous  world  about  him  that 
the  petty  supernaturalism  taught  by  the  schools  seemed  to  hfm 
vulgar  and  feeble,  without  claim  to  any  pl.ace  in  a  truly  moderi. 
philosophy.  He  believed  that  we  had  outlived  the  need  of 
churches  and  preachers.  In  his  noble  and  poetic  preface  to  the 
first  edition  of  "  Leaves  of  Grass  "  he  said  :  "  There  will  soon 
be  no  more  priests.  Their  work  is  done.  They  may  wait  awhile 
— perha|is  a  generation  or  two — dropping  off  by  degrees.  A 
superior  breed  shall  take  their  i)lace--the  gangs  of  Kosmos  and 
projihets  en  masse  shall  take  their  place.  A  new  order  shall 
arise,  and  they  shall  be  the  priests  of  man,  and  every  man  shall 


TIIK  I'OKT  OF  IMMOh'TA/.lTV. 


3.S5 


ing  creature 
sc  wiio  knew 
laced  n  man 
theory  lluit 
srsion  into  a 
vrite  greater 
spiritual  life 
olvecl  from  a 
ough  certain 
•bed  in  a  per- 

niany  stand- 
IJecause  of 
the  last  ten 
iibject  of  his 
iblished  writ- 
lurport  of  his 
s  book  would 
■as  something 
with  the  ten- 
'hich  it  leads, 
lie  theology, 
i  wholly  with- 
igh  his  poems. 
;  1  use  it  and 
so  acutely 
lout  h.i'u  that 
niied  to  h'm 
truly  moden. 
the  need   of 
)refa<e  to  the 
lero  wiil  soon 
'  wail  awhile 
degrees.     A 
Kosi'ios  and 
order  shall 
cry  man  shall 


be  his  own  priest.  The  churches  built  under  their  umbrage 
shall  be  the  churches  of  men  and  women.  Tlirougli  the  divinity 
of  themselves  siiall  the  Kosnios  and  the  new  breed  of  poets  be 
interpreters  of  men  and  wonu"  ,  and  of  all  events  and  things. 
They  shall  find  tlieir  inspiration  in  real  objec  Is  to-day,  symptoms 
of  the  past  and  future.  They  shall  not  deign  lo  defend  inunorlal- 
ity  orl'iod,  or  the  perfei  lion  of  things,  or  liberty,  or  tiie  ex<|nisite 
beauly  and  reality  of  the  soul.  They  shall  arise  in  America, 
and  be  responded  ti,  from  the  remainder  of  the  earth." 

He  regarded  the  <lergy  as  to  a  large  extent  parasites,  sucking 
the  life  out  of  natural  religion,  and  in  the  process  of  negation 
going  on  in  the  modern  world  lie  saw  the  d;iwn  of  a  stronger  faith 
more  suited  to  the  Iieallhy  development  of  man.  lie  knew  that 
changes  were  transpiring  in  the  world  of  thought  more  iniijortant 
than  ever  had  taken  place  before,  and  his  aim  was  always  to  justify 
the  ways  of  (Jod  lo  man  in  an  optimistic  actcijiaiue  of  every- 
thing in  the  universe.  He  believed  that  this  was  the  best  possible 
w*)rld,  and  that  whatever  would  happen  would  be  the  best  that 
could  possibly  happen.  I  remember  him  speaking  about  the 
Hiblical  story  of  the  creation,  ami  he  repeated  several  times  the 
words,  "  .'\nd  (lod  saw  that  it  was  good."  "  Wiial  a  splendid 
subje<  t  lor  a  sermon  !"  he  said,  "but  where  is  the  man  who 
could  do  it  justice?  It  would  re<piire  another  Kmers(,u  lodoso." 
This  cosmic  acceptance  was  with  him  an  all-|>ervading  presence. 
It  never  forsook  hmi.  I  hai)|)ened  to  call  at  his  house  when  he 
had  a  most  serious  and  sudden  attack  which  for  the  moment 
seemed  fatal.  He  lay  on  the  lounge  insensible.  In  a  moment 
of  recuiring  consciousness,  I  asked  him  about  his  condition,  and 
he  respcjuded  feebly  but  with  the  naturalness  of  a  (  hild  :  "  I  sliall 
be  better  soon,  but  it  will  be  a//  n\'/i/  aiiyuiy."  Amid  all  Ins 
conflict  with  conventional  religious  thought  he  knew  that  religion 
was  the  most  important  factor  in  the  history  of  civilization  ;  and 
hence  the  germ  of  his  book  is  religion,  and  therefore  he  says  : 

"  I  say  no  man  lias  ever  yt't  liecn  half  devout  enough. 
None  lias  over  yet  aiioved  or  worshijiM  half  enuiinh, 

None  ha>  iieguii  to  think  how  ilivine  he  hiiiisclf  is,  and  how  certain  the 
future  is." 


f  /,  • 


i 


'■U^^ 


m  m-i 


If 


S5f' 


L\   KK   WU.r   H  ,V/7.I/.|  V. 


"  I  >»rtv  ihni  ll»p  n\\  :>'  '  nPiMiiHenl  f»>-i«inleHi  o(  tin  le  S|  ■       iiuisi  lir  \\w\t  le- 
lij;iiin. 
Diheruisi' lluti-        o  le^l  »•  il    ei  .iiucm  miimlcui  ; 
^Nuv  chnvncici  i\<.    li'",.  roiiliv  the  im'Mc  "  ithmii  ivlmimi, 
Ni»v  Iniul  \\v\  >■  '\\\  111  »\i  «ii.-«ii  witlumi    di^jinn)." 

"  \\»»\\  vixi,  solely  (n  tl  ,  ]i  \\,  tin  oniil!  ilu-  uoiins  of  w  nvnt',!  iilininii. 
riu*  tullowin^  I  li;»ni>«  iMU'Ii  (ill  111  Uiiitl  I  sinji  " 

KvvMvwlK'ir  lie  rcrognizes  \\\p  vnli-.^  nl  tho  past,  and  tlu*  iin 
|«)ilant  liiil  (hat  loligions  are  tltc  H(op|iiit;'-stoneH  of  tlu*  agos— 
liow  (lirv  havr  paiiUcd  pii  (mrs.  \\ii((in  mfa(  mu-ius  ai\»l  timsii , 
inspind  u»ai(yis,  rtcairil  ivvoliKioiis  ami  enlarged  (hcMadiro  of 
man.  Mn(  'u'  watiis  Ms  imt  U  give  tl\«>  past  inoie  than  i(H  duo. 
Ho  o(i(.l>ids  at  thes(ar(  (he  "old  raiitions  hmkstois."  and  ivi  og- 
nizos  (he  seiviir  o(  all  needs  and  nivths: 

••  I  rtWmn  lliem  nil  foi  whut  lltey  an'  woilli,  iUdl  nut  n  «oi\(  luon-." 

Mi"^  ph\li'sophv  im  hides  all  <  luinhes  ami  leligions.  and  \n 
greaier  (han  anv .  Some  one  onre  aski'tl  me  "  \viu'(her  Walt 
VVhiiman  ever  \ven(  lo  i  hmeh."  I  <  an  haidlv  explain  why,  hut 
(he  ipies(ion  seemed  vei  v  hidirtons.  Strong  and  eo'Kent,  he  has 
always  (lavellt-d  the  open  mad.  I'or  a  lew  yeais  we  had  a  Uni- 
laiian  (.!hnreh  in  CamiiMi.  ami  1  go(  him  to  read  his  I.ineolu 
hvture  there  one  week  \)t\  eveniog,  .'.nd  (his  wns  probably  his 
only  yisil  (o  a  <  hnni>  siii-  e  eatly  youth,  ^!any  Sunday  eyenings 
t  railed  on  my  way  tn  cluireh,  aid  he  always  enjoyed  telling  me 
with  tine  ihmu  \("ov  lu  was  ("nil  o(  'piiet  hnmor^:  "  NN'ell.  I'om, 
yon  know  my  plulosi-iphi  iiu  hides  (hem  ail  -rrvv;  //ir  (  •iifinuvny 
He  neyer  rhanged  i\.i  views  rospeeting  what  he  lalleil  "(his 
( old-bloodeil,  lespeetalMe  New  Kngland  in(elle< dialism,"  and 
had  no  (aith  in  its  ('\itutv.  I  have  taken  many  mini^lers  of  the 
Unitarian  denomination  to  the  little  Mn  kle  s(ree(  s'.irine.  and 
hey  wrre  all  greatly  impressed  with  liim.  Ihit  though  he  saw 
.he  ntter  shiMlroming  y>{  the  preaeher  oi  to-day,  and  knew  that 
the  people  are  being  fed  largely  upon  husks  -with  (ha(  vulgar 
dualism,  which,  disreganling  (he  unity  o("  nature,  ledtnes 
theology  to  a  eommei*  lal  basis  ol  punishment  and  rewainls,  and 


is(  111-  (Iti'ir  re- 


ll'li^iDII. 

ami  tho  iiu- 
I  tlu-  ages — . 
i  iuul  nuisif, 
\cstntmc  of 
lian  ilH  t1\u'. 
ami  n'(  Of)- 

(  n«oif." 

oils.   ;\\u\   IS 

\i'thcr   Walt 

in  wliy,  l»i>t 

iloiil.  I\('  lias 

Uavl  a  Uni-" 

\m  l,ii\(-oln 

'n>1)al>lv  Iiis 

\\  I'vrniiigs 

lolling  WW 

I' 

»ittttittm 

oti  "  lliia 
ism,"  and 
UTS  of  I  ho 
hrinc.  a.iul 
igli  ho  saw 
knew  tl\at 
that  vulgar 
rothu  OS 
wanls,  and 


W, 


oi\i, 


77//0  /'OA'7'  <>/!•  IMMOIiVM.ITY 


35y 


nhus  to  <onlrttl  men  hy  ht)|)o  u  li  (oai — yd  ho  stood  vilh  rov- 
croinc  and  silonco  In  fore  ll-'  Infinuics  nnd  Imintirilios.  He 
rmphiisizoi!  inalerinl  'hinj^.s  I'Tuuso  tliev  cio  fl/j  l':i.**<«  wf  tiio 
spiritual. 

"  I    will   iiirtkc  till'   I'.irniH  nf  miilfiliils,  foi  I  tliiiik  tlu-y  nrc  li>  be    !(«■  mo*' 

ii|tiri(unl  pneim, 
Ami  1  will  ninlic  tin'  pcicnts  nf  inv  hxilv  nint  iiimtnlilv. 
Fill    i  lltiiik    1   sliiili  tiii'ii  supply  iiiyii'll  with  ll»f  piicnis  til'  my  ■    ^.I  phiI  iif 

imniniintHy." 

No  man  ovor  had  a  hroador  grasp  of  iho  iiilinilo,  and  in  no 
lilcr.Tltiro  lan  W  lonnd  loliior  ast  riptions  lo  Iho  illimilaUlo  uni- 
vcrso.  In  his  mind  man  and  his  destiny  are  the  purposes  of 
world  making. 

••  Imnipiise  Imvc  t)pcn  tlie  piTpnri»iii>ii'<  (ni  iiii>, 
Kniliiful  niul  fricmlly  tin-  nnim  llii\t  liuvc  lulpM  ini>. 

rycic'  feiticd  my  rrmllp,  rnwinn  nml  lowiii);  likr  clieciful  Imnlmcn, 
I'm  loom  lo  mo  sIhir  kcpl  nsiilc  In  lliclr  own  iiiij;<i, 
'I'lii'V  si'hl  liilUicmH's  lo  li".l,  i\llfi  wlii\|  will  to  liolil  nit'. 

Hrfoio  I  wi\<<  lioni  mil  ol   \\\\  mollici  ^;(MH'|ii|Io(i'<  ^iililnl  nif, 
My  emiiiyo  li:m  ncvi't  hern  loiplil,  noililnn  fiulil  ovi'iliiy  11. 

Vm  ll  till"  nrlinli>  coIumi-iI  lo  nn  oili, 
'I'lio  lim^;  slow  '.liiilii  pilril  lo  ii".!  ll  on, 


Vnsi 


vpfJiii'lilcs  jjiivr  il  snslrmnuc. 


Monslions  sniroiils  linnsjiortcd   il  in  lltrlr  moullis  nml   ilcposllcil   ll    willi 


OHIO. 


All  Touts  Imvp  Imcn  slonilily  cmploy'il  lo  coniplflo  nml  ili>ti(;l.l  mo, 
Now  on  lliis  vpot  I  ■;|,inil  Willi  my  lol'usi  smil." 

Not  only  has  this  pro'Tss  been  going  on  in  ihi^  'v  >f-id  '^  ours, 


but  it 


is  univers.Tl.     'I'hc  essential  imilv  of  naf- 


.'.lis  r,v  ,er  noon 


po  grandly  and  t om  hisivcly  slated.     Whilm..  ■  ;  mind  radiated 
from  this  ocntr.d  idoa. 

•'  Mv  snn  tirt':  ill':  sun  nnil  louiu'  I'on  olicilionlly  wlic.  Is, 
lie  ioins  will)  hjs  pnilnois  n  ;.  up  of  supciioi  liifuil. 
Ami  grenltM  sets  follow,  inakitii;  specks  of  ihe  grent"9t  inside  IliOrn, 


*    t 


3gS  iiV  NN   WAl.r   nHITMAA'. 

Tltprr  U  no  Muppngf  nml  it«vrr  cnn  l)e  Mo|)|tnKf , 

If  I,  you,  mill  (lir  wotltU,  nml  nil  lirtu'iitli  m  upon  ihcir  j^iii-rnccii,  were  lliU 

ntonirnt  nMluccil  Imck  lo  n  imllltl  (lont,  it  would  not  nvnil  in  the 

lon^i  run, 
AVe  ^luMtl.l  »ur«'ly  l>rlnn  up  nunin  where  we  ni»W  MflUil, 
And  surely  ^o  ns  nnuli  Inrthcr,  nnd  then  fnrilier  nnd  Tnither. 

A  few  .lurtdrillion^  of  ern*.  n  few  octillioui  of  cultic  leoKuen,  dotiot  hAmrd 

the  opnn  or  nutUp  it  iniimlicnl, 
They  nre  luti  pnitu,  nny  tiling  i^  l)ul  n  pnrt. 

See  ever  «o  fur,  there  l«  limitleM  »pnce  outiiide  of  thnt, 
I'ount  ever  no  nuich,  there  is  liniille^  tin>e  nround  ihnl. 

My  j-ende«»ou<  In  nppointed,  it  l«  cerlnin, 

My  l.iud  will  lie  there  nnd  wnii  till  I  eonn'  on  perfeet  term*, 

'I'he  jjreiH  (  nnieindo,  the  lovei  true  lor  whom  I  pine  will  I'e  (here." 

1  ilo  not  piopoRc  any  discttssion  of  Whitman's  spiritual  pan- 
tlioir.nt.  Ill  tho  Infjliost  sense  lie  aUvtys  "  walked  with  (mm!  " 
with  even  paee.  His  ttntosliiited  faith  causeil  him  lo  recognise 
a  (liviitity  in  all  things. 

"  Ah  more  ihnn  nny  priext  (>  ^oul  we  too  believe  In  (Jod, 
Hut  with  the  mystery  of  (iod  we  dnre  not  dnUy." 

To  hiiu  evil  w.is  of  like  origin  with  good — but  he  saw  the  sur- 
vival of  the  good— 

"  Uonminu  in  ihiMi^rht  over  the  Universe,  I  snw  the  Utile  thnt  Is  (Jood  stendlly 
hrtslenin^  townnls  inunoiinliiv. 
And  the  v:\si  M  ihnt  is  cidlod  Kvil   I  sow  hnstening  to  mcri^e  itself  nnd  lic- 
iMn)e  lost  nnd  dcnd." 

And  again  : 

"  In  this  hrond  enrth  of  ours, 
Amid  the  men<>uieless  niossiiess  nnd  the  sing, 
Enclosed  nnd  snfe  within  its  centrnl  henit. 
Nestle*  ihe  seed  pel feciiiui." 

His  use  of  the  term  "  (Iod  "  is  lo  symbolize  the  spiritual 
vitalitv  whirh  pervades  the  universe.  This  is  the  God  that  has 
lighted  his  life 


do  not  Imtniil 


saw  the  Hiir- 


77/A*  PORT  OF  IMMOHTM.nV,  359 

"  Willi  my  of  ll^hi,  Mrnily,  liipffuMp,  voiicli^nfeil  (if  Tliee, 
liulu  mil"  iintellnlilr,  linlilinj;  tlio  very  li((li(, 
Hfyoiul  nil  siyiH,  (le^cii|itiiin!i,  lniiKiin|{ei  " 

Tills  is  the  (Mill  fti  which  he  (lung  v/hcn  the  waves  Imneted 
him,  tttul  of  whom  lie  exiiltitigly  says; 

"  Thee,  Thee,  nt  lenM  I  know." 
This  is  tiie  God  to  wliom  he  reverenti;'  says— 

/       ••  (}lve  me  (1  ({ml  to  %\\\^  iluit  ili.nnjlit, 

<>ive  iiic,  nivc  liiiii  or  lii-r  I  liivf  (lii'<  i|iii'i)(  lili'^n  fiillli, 
In  riiy  eiisciiililf,  « Imiever  oUc  wilhlii'ld  witlilmlil  nut  from  Ui, 
lli'li<-f  ill  plitii  iif    rii(>i<  riirliificd  in  Time  mid  Space, 
lleallh,  pcncu,  xnlvntion  iitiivcrttitl." 

Hilt  what  of  the  soul  of  man?  Is  it  a  distinct  identity? 
Whitman  believed  in  it  ahsoliilcly. 

"  Sure  rn  ilie  moM  cerlnin  sure,  pliimli  in  ll  e  uprinlilw,  well  entrptietl,  brnceil 
ill  lilt"  liprtiiis, 
Sli'iil  n«  II  liiir'<c,  nni't'liiiiiiiio,  Inui^lily,  elcilricnl, 
I  mill  tiiis  iiiyitlpiy  Ikmo  we  siniul. 

Clenr  nii'l  oweet  U  my  ^mil,  ninl  rlenr  niul  <<weet  is  nil  llinl  l^  not  my  soul, 
l.nrk  one  liu-U^  Imlli,  iitnl  tin-  iiiisren  is  pinveil  liy  tin-  sfpii, 
'I'ill  llmt  lit'i-onu's  iiiKeen  iiml  rcreivcs  piiiuf  in  il«  turn." 

••  I  |)eli>>ve  in  ynii  my  soul,  ilic  other  I  nm  must  not  almsc  itself  lo  you, 
And  you  must  not  lie  nlmscd  tn  the  other.'' 

"  The  liody  pernmnciil  - 
The  liody  Inrkinij  there  within  thy  body, 
The  only  purport  of  the  form  thou  nrt,  the  reni  I  niyself." 

How  easily  and  naturally  Whitman  becomes  the  poet  of  death 
and  immortality!  Me  believes  that  wc  arc  now  living  in  an 
eternal  universe,  and  thai  we  are  deathless.  'I'liis  belief  is 
an  absolute  faith.  He  does  not  ptrlend  to  expound  any  theory 
or  to  explain  the  niysterv  of  coiitiniiily.  He  only  sings  the 
lioet'"  songs  oi  exaltation  and  triutnph. 


..,,..,i;-.:....-^^f...---'^^^^.j^^~-1.^-.f    ■     ^l^-Tj- 


360  I^  UK    WALT   WIIITMAX. 

*•  I  do  not  (1oul)t  I  am  limitless,  and  that  the  universes  are  lim'tless,  in  vain  I 

t  y  tc  think  how  limitless  .  ,  .  . 
I  do  not  doubt  that  temporary  affairs  keep  on  and  on  millions  of  years  .... 
1  do  not  think  Life  provides  for  all  and  for  Time  and  Space,  but  I  believe 

that  Heavenly  Death  provides  for  all." 

"  The  smallest  sprout  shows  there  is  really  no  death." 
"  All  goes  outward  and  outward,  nothing  collapses." 

"  And  I  have  dream'd  that  the  pur)>ose  and  essence  o(  the  known  life,  the 
transient, 
Is  to  form  and  decide  identity  for  the  unknown  life,  the  permanent." 


But  what  kind  of  Immortality  did  he  believe  in  ?  Does  the 
individual  soul  become  a  part  of  great  nature's  spiritual  vitality, 
or  retain  its  individual  identity?  There  is  great  diversity  of 
opinion  among  stmlents  of  Whitman  on  this  subject.  Let  me 
put  forth  no  uncertain  utterance.  I  have  frequently  conversed 
with  him  about  his  belief  in  Immortality.  To  the  very  last  he 
assured  me  that  his  faith  was  "stronger  than  ever"  in  the  im- 
mortality of  the  individual  soul.  His  views  are  clearly  stated 
In  his  notice  of  the  death  of  Carlyle,  to  be  found  in  his  prose 
writings,  where  he  says:  "And  now  that  he  has  gone  hence,  can 
it  be  that  Thomas  Carlyle,  soon  to  chemically  dissolve  in  ashes 
and  by  winds,  remains  an  identity  still  ?  In  ways  perhaps  elud- 
ing all  the  statements,  lore  and  speculations  of  ten  thousand 
years — eluding  all  possible  statements  to  mortal  sense—  ..oes  he 
yet  exist,  a  definite,  vital  being,  a  spirit,  an  individual — perhaps 
now  wafted  in  space  among  those  stellar  systems,  which,  sug- 
gestive and  limitless  as  they  are,  merely  edge  more  limitless,  far 
more  suggestive  systems  ?  I  have  no  doubt  of  It.  In  silence,  of 
a  fine  night,  such  questions  are  answer'd  to  the  soul,  the  best 
answers  that  can  be  given.  With  me,  too,  when  depressed  by 
some  specially  sad  event,  or  tearing  problem,  I  wait  till  I  go  out 
under  the  stars  for  the  last  voiceless  satisfaction." 

And  thus  with  feet  "  tenon'd  and  mortis'd  in  granite  "  he  could 
well  "  laugh  at  dissolution."  Death,  "  God's  beautiful,  eternal 
right  hand,"  "  usherer — guide  at  last  to  all,"  became  a  welcome 


THE  POET  OF  IMMORTALITY, 


361 


)f  years  .... 
but  I  believe 


visitor.  It  has  not  been  my  purpose  to  write  an  exhaustive  or 
critical  paper.  I  have  barely  more  than  hinted  at  my  subject. 
I  stagger  before  its  magnitude.  The  best  way  to  understand 
this  gospel  of  the  individual  man  is  to  read  flie  book.  That  it 
is  tlie  basis  of  a  new  spiritual  acceptance  of  the  universe,  en- 
tirely consistent  with  modern  science,  I  firmly  believe.  That  it 
is  adapted  to  all  kinds  and  conditions  of  men,  I  also  believe.  I 
knew  this  man  intimately,  and  the  only  value  this  artic.-  can 
have  is  to  add  my  personal  testimony  to  the  entire  consistency 
of  his  life  mission.  He  was  as  true  a  prophet  as  ever  trod  this 
planet.  Every  heart-throb  beat  in  unison  with  the  great  heart 
of  humanity.  To  him  this  life  was  serious  business,  and  he 
labored  here,  set  an  incarnated  example  here,  of  life  and  death. 
Peacefully,  joyously,  he  met  his  translation.  I  count  it  a 
blessed  privilege  to  have  been  with  him  at  the  parting,  when  his 
robust  soul,  erect  before  a  thousand  universes,  glided  noiselessly 
forth — this  great  democrat  of  earth — without  lamentation,  join- 
ing in  the  sopl^  of  the  elder  prophet:  "Yea,  though  I  walk 
through  the  valley  of  the  shadow  «f  death,  I  will  fear  no  evil: 
■for  thou  art  with  me :  thy  rod  and  thy  staff  they  comfort  me." 


1 


h 


Whitman  says  that  they  who  in(i>.t  loudly  praise  him  are  not  thiise  who 
understand  him  best.  I,  perhaps,  will  not  come  under  the  censure,  though  I 
-do  under  the  description  ;  for  I  confess  I  do  not  understand  thisi  man.  The 
■logical  sense  of  the  words,  the  appositeness  and  accuracy  of  the  images,  one 
'Can  indeed  apprehend  and  enjoy ;  but  there  is  an  undertone  of  meaning  in 
Whitman  which  can  never  be  fully  comprehended.  This,  doubtless,  is  true 
of  all  first-rnte  poetry ;  but  it  must  be  applied  in  a  special  sense  to  the  writings 
of  a  man  who  is  not  only  a  poet  but  a  mystic — a  man  who  thoroughly  enjoys 
this  world,  yet  looks  confidently  to  one  diviner  still  beyond ;  who  professes  a 
.passionate  attachment  to  his  friends,  yet  snys  that  he  has  other  friends,  nut  to 
be  seen  with  the  eye,  closer  and  nearer  and  dearer  to  him  than  these.  The 
hardening,  vulgarizing  influences  of  life  have  not  hardened  and  vulgarized  the 
spiritual  sensibilities  of  this  poet,  who  looks  at  this  world  with  the  wondering 
freshness  of  a  child,  and  to  the  world  beyond  with  the  gaze  of  a  seer.  He 
has  what  Wordsworth  lost,  and  in  his  old  nge  come  trailing  clouds  of  glory 
— shadows  cast  backward  from  a  sphere  which  we  have  left,  thrown  forward 
from  a  sphere  to  which  we  are  approaching. 


StanJish  O' Grady:  "IValt  IVhilman,   The  Poet  of  Joy.'* 


(362) 


WALT    WHITMAN   AND   THE    COMMON 

PEOPLE. 

Bf  JOHN  BURROUGHS. 


When  I  saw  the  crowds  of  common  people  that  flocked  to 
Walt  Whitman's  funeral,  I  said,  How  fit,  how  touching,  all 
this  is  ;  how  well  it  would  please  him.  It  is  from  the  common 
people,  the  great  army  of  workers,  that  he  rises  and  speaks  with 
such  power  and  authority.  His  poems  are  all  attuned  to  broad, 
universal  humanity. 

It  is  not  the  si)ecially  endowed  or  privileged  few  that  elicit 
his  enthusiasm,  but  the  average  man  or  woman  of  trades  and 
occupations.  I  remember  orice  calling  his  attention  to  a  story 
in  a  magazine,  wherein  some  typical  western  frontier  charac- 
ters were  portrayed.  He  said,  after  reading  it,  that  it  would 
not  do  at  all;  that  those  large,  homely,  unlettered  pioneer 
characters  were  not  to  be  looked  down  upon  or  treated  in  the 
scornful,  supercilious  manner  in  which  they  were  treated  in  this 
story.  Small,  perky  men  always  treated  them  so,  but  great 
men  never ;  and  he  instanced  Tristam  Shandy  as  the  proper 
way  to  do  this  thing.  The  atmosphere  which  his  poems  breathe 
is  always  that  of  common  humanity — never  that  of  select, 
specially  cultured,  privileged  humanity. 

It  may  seem  difficult  at  first  to  reconcile  his  atmosphere  and 
attitude  in  this  respect  with  our  need  at  all  times  of  keeping 
bright  the  ideal  of  a  rare  and  high  excellence.  But  there  is 
really  no  discrepancy.  The  loftiest  heroism,  the  deepest  and 
purest  spirituality,  we  know  can  go  with  commonplace  every- 
day humanity.  "Charity  and  personal  force,"  the  poet  says, 
"are  the  only  investments  worth  anything."     We  are  all  under 

(363) 


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364  /-v  iz/i:  ir^zr  wiiitmax. 

the  illusion,  more  or  less,  of  the  cultured,  the  refined ;  yet  we 
know  that  true  greatness,  true  nobility,  and  strength  of  soul 
are  quite  apirt  from  these  things.  "The  older  one  grows," 
says  Goethe,  "the  more  one  prizes  natural  gifts,  because  by 
no  possibility  can  they  be  procured  and  stuck  on."  Matthew 
Arnold,  in  whose  essay  on  Milton  I  find  this  remark  quoted 
from  Goethe,  thought  that  one  danger  that  threatened  us  in 
this  country  was  that  we  were  inclined  to  make  a  religion  of 
the  "average  man,"  and  therefore  of  losing  the  saving  ideal  of 
rare  and  high  excellence.  Whitman  would  lift  the  average 
man  to  a  higher  average,  and  still  to  a  higlier,  without  at  all 
abating  the  qualities  which  he  shares  with  universal  humanity 
as  it  exists  over  and  under  all  special  advantages  and  artificial 
selections.  He  says  that  one  of  the  convictions  that  underlie 
his  "  Leaves  "  is  the  conviction  that  the  "crowning  growth  of 
the  United  States  is  to  be  spiritual  and  heroic," — a  prophecy,  I 
confess,  which,  with  Hillism  and  Quayism  threatening  to  over- 
ride us,  does  not  seem  very  near  fulfillment. 


"  I  announce  a  man  or  woman  comingf — perhaps  you  are  the  one, 
I  announce  a  great  individual,  fluid  as  nature,  chaste,  affeciionate,  compas- 
sionate, fully  armed, 
I  announce  a  life  that  shall  be  copious,  vehement,  spiritual,  bold. 
And  I  announce  an  old  age  that  shall    lightly  and  joyfully  meet  its  trans- 
lation." 


Arnold  said  we  had  lost  in  the  sense  of  distinction  in  this- 
country,  and  found  our  great  historical  characters,  like  Lincoln, 
deficient  in  this  quality.  No  doubt  this  is  so  ;  no  doubt  dis- 
tinction— that  something  about  a  man  and  his  work  that  is  like  cut 
glass — does  not  flourish  in  democracies,  where  there  are  no 
classes ;  it  belongs  to  aristocracies.  But  there  is  another 
quality  close  akin  which  we  c;  nnot  do  without,  and  which  such 
characters  as  Lincoln  show.  I  mean  elevation — elevation  of 
thought  and  sentiment.  It  is  a  quality  which  goes  with  serious- 
ness and  large  views.  It  is  very  pronounced  in  both  Whitman's 
poetry  and  prose.  The  spirit,  especially  in  the  prose  writings, 
is  lofty  and  uncompromising — almost  arrogant  and  dictatorial 


ned ;  yet  we 
ngth  of  soul 
Diie  grows," 

because  by 
"  Matthew 
nark  quoted 
tened   us   in 

religion  of 
ing  ideal  of 

the  average 
ithout  at  all 
al  humanity 
md  artificial 
hat  underlie 
g  growth  of 

prophecy,  I 
ing  to  over- 


ne, 

Miate,  compas- 

lolcl, 
meet  its  trans- 


tion  in  this 
ike  Lincoln, 
>  doubt  dis- 
lat  is  like  cut 
here  are  no 
is  another 
I  which  such 
elevation  of 
.vith  serious- 
1  Whitman's 
3se  writings, 
1  dictatorial 


WALT    WHITMAN  AND    THE  COMMON  PEOPLE.         365 

at  times.  In  the  poems,  where  he  gives  fuller  play  to  his  com- 
passion and  contentment,  where  he  is  less  the  critic  and  more 
the  lover,  the  elevation  is  not  of  the  kind  that  separates  him 
from  his  reader ;  it  is  like  that  of  nature,  in  which  we  easily 
share.  We  feel  that  here  is  a  soul  whose  range  of  thought  and 
emotion  are  vastly  beyond  our  own,  and  yet,  who  in  nowise 
stands  aloof  or  apart  from  us,  or  from  the  lowest  of  his  fellows. 


!      ! 


u 


p 


{I 


I  WANT,  SO  does  Europe  and  the  best  of  America,  that  you  put  Cohiml)us 
on  deck  !  God  !  how  you  can  make  him  stand  out  in  that  last,  long  night  as 
he  leans  looking  for  the  light— America !  If  only  six  lines,  let  us  have  it. 
Be  good  to  Walt  Whitman  this  once  now,  and  don't  let  the  land  have  to  re- 
proach  itself  when  you  have  gone  the  other  side  of  Darkness. 


Joaqinn  Miller  to  Walt  Whitman,  1891. 


(366) 


I 


IVIY  SUMMER    WITH  WALT  WHITMAN,  1887. 


By  SIDNEY  If.   MOUSE. 


)Ut  Columbus 
long  night  as 
it  us  have  it. 
1(1  have  to  re- 


mutt,  1 89 1. 


"  From  Washington  to  Camden — not  far.  From  Cleveland 
to  Whitman — as  far  as  the  poles." 

Thus  in  his  devotion  a  friend  of  the  poet  exclaimed  when  told 
that  I  had  gone  from  the  White  House  to  328  Mickle  street, 
Camden,  modelling  the  heads  of  two  representative  men. 

To  which  challenge  I  made  reply,  in  substance,  as  follows : 

"Two  widely  different  personalities,  I  grant  you,  but  with 
somewhat  in  common.  One  thing  observable  in  Cleveland  as 
in  Whitman  is  the  lack  in  reverence  for  tradition  and  precedent. 
Neither  doubts,  I  take  it,  but  he  is  born  with  his  special  mission 
to  the  modern  world.  Heir  of  the  ages,  he  moves  in  the  present 
as  also  a  new  personal  force.  Whitman  makes  his  own  poems 
out  of  his  own  genius  and  nobody's  else. 


" '  One's  self  I  sing,  a  simple  separate  person.* 

"  Cleveland  reshapes  the  party's  platform  in  the  similitude  of 
his  own  convictions." 

Something  like  this  was  afterwards  said  to  Whitman  concern- 
ing the  President,  he  being  **  very  curious  about  Grover."  He 
had  heard  similar  things  said  of  him  even  before  he  was  the 
President.  "He  read  my  'Leaves'  at  one  time,  I'm  told,  and 
did  not  think  badly  of  them.  Anyhow,  I  like  to  know  all  about 
the  Presidents.  They  stand  for  a  good  deal,  to  my  thinking. 
I've  a  fondness  for  their  messages."  When  I  confessed  a  liking 
for  the  "  messages,"  having  at  one  time  gone  over  them  all  from 
Washington's  Inaugural  down,  he  replied  with  a  smile  that  he 
"was  never  so  far  gone  as  that,"  but  thought  it  might  be  "a 

O67) 


w  ? 


u 


368 


IN   RK    WALT   W III r MAN. 


good  thing  for  a  young  fellow  to  go  through  the  list,  making  his 
notes.     Good  history,  etc." 

He  pressed  nie  for  "all  the  news  about  Cleveland  "  I  could 
give  him.  '•  What's  your  off-hand  idea  of  him  from  observ;.tions 
taken  on  the  spot?  Where's  he  drifting?  What's  his  creed — 
politically  speaking?" 

1  had  seen  the  President  an  hour  or  so  at  a  time  several  morn- 
ings, taking  clay-notes  while  he  opened  his  mail.  Politics  were 
"  not  in  it,"  but  a  remark  now  and  then  of  his  threw  a  sidelight 
of  a  political  color.  Confessing  my  meager  data  to  Whitman, 
he  urged:  "No  matter  for  that,  one  don't  get  away  with  a 
glance  even  that  doesn't  carry  an  idea  with  it,  often  the  best." 
But  the  most  I  could  vouch  for  was  little  enough.  "  Watching 
him  while  he  intently,  carefully  worked  at  his  letters,  the  Presi- 
dent was  not  an  uninteresting  study.  It  dawned  on  me  at  the  time 
that  the  presidential  attitude  kept  saying  :  '  Keep  at  it,  no  fuss, 
never  fear.'  Then,  it  did  not  take  long  to  get  the  impression  that  he 
was  a  man  who  really  had  faith  in  ideas  as  though  they  were  some- 
thing real.  His  administration,  I  judge,  will  stand  or  fall  on  ideas. 
He  will  not  forsake  ideas  to  do  politic  things.  In  a  sense  he  is  a 
transcendentalist,  though  his  avoirdupois  tells  against  him.  I 
presented  him  with  a  photo  of  Emerson  taken  in  his  younger 
days.  You  would  have  enjoyed  seeing  how  heartily  he  received 
it,  and  the  few  words  of  Emersonian  admiration.  The  man  must 
have  dipped  into  a  good  many  Jordan  streams.  As  to  his  political 
creed,  I  think  he  would  not  object  to  one's  saying  that  he  hopes 
to  rescue  the  government  from  all  the  usurpations  of  the  paternal 
system,  and  let  what  we  call  'government'  fall  back  as  the 
least  conspicuous  feature  of  our  civilization.  Local  freedom, 
local  responsibility.  *  Local  option  '  on  all  subjects  carried  as 
far  as  possible.  The  subject  came  briefly  up  in  some  reference  to 
the  scramble  for  the  'surplus'  revenue.  'The  saddest  thing,' 
he  said,  '  in  regard  to  the  South  is,  that  they  are  forsaking  their 
old  traditions  and  going  in  for  the  sugar-plums  of  paternalism.' 
He  was  on  the  de-centralizing  track." 

"That's  good  democracy,"  Whitman  exclaimed,  "and  means 
much  if  you've  the  right  version  of  it.     Tallies  well  with  what 


3IY  SUMMER    WITH   WALT  WIIIT.VAy,  1887. 


369 


t,  making  his 

nd"  I  could 
1  observ'.tions 
s  his  creed — 

several  morn- 
Politics  were 
;\v  a  sidelight 
to  Whitman, 
away  with  a 
en  the  best." 
"  Watching 
:rs,  the  Presi- 
ne  at  the  time 
at  it,  no  fuss, 
ession  that  he 
■y  were  some- 

■  fall  on  ideas, 
sense  he  is  a 

inst  him.  I 
his  younger 
y  he  received 
"he  man  must 
3  his  political 
hat  he  hopes 

■  the  paternal 
back  as  the 

cal  freedom, 
ts  carried  as 
;  reference  to 
Idest  thing,' 
•saking  their 
paternalism.' 

"  and  means 
ill  with  what 


I  heard  before  he  was  the  President.  We  shall  see.  I  have  a 
hope  that  he'll  run  his  administration  as  they  run  banks.  Why 
not?  I  don't  wish  to  debase  the  office,  nor  abolish  it  as  Mon- 
cure  Conway  says  he  does.  No,  no  ;  the  President  is  the  one 
man  representing  every  inch  of  the  Republic.  He's  worth  keep- 
ing if  only  as  a  figure-head  of  our  national  democracy,  the 
solidarity  of  the  nation.     So  say  I,  at  any  rate,  and  stick  to  it." 

This  was  in  1887,  but  I  had  remembrances  of  Whitman  dating 
back  to  1876,  the  summer  of  the  Centennial.  I  was  then,  as  in 
1887,  under  commission  to  model  some  portrait  of  him.  To 
take  in  the  Exposition  and  study  the  poet's  head  would  be  the 
economy  of  the  "two  birds  with  one  stone."  But  the  resultant 
"bust ' '  went  the  rounds  telling  itspitiable  story.  Disappointments 
came  drifting  in,  but  none  so  frankly  put  as  that  foj-warded  by 
the  poet-victim  himself:  "  Features  not  unlike,  but  hut-bnm 
looks  like.  .  .  .  How  could  you?"  As  a  matter  of  flict,  I 
didn't.  If  I  failed  of  giving  the  original  brim  the  "  width  and 
generous  lop  "  desired,  and  always  secured,  if  it  was  but  a  twenty- 
cent  straw  by  the  Whitman  himself  (one  of  which  I  ransacked 
the  Quaker  city  to  find  for  him),  the  fault  was  not  wholly  mine. 
I  could  tell  a  mitigating  story  of  the  unlucky  Italian  who  did 
the  casting,  demolishing  the  original  brim,  substituting  therefor 
a  narrow  uncanny  thing  of  his  own  construction.  Those  were 
the  first  years  of  my  art  and  I  had  not  learned  the  lesson  of 
eternal  vigilance. 

Whituinn  could  get  around  very  well  by  himself  in  1876,  and 
came  regularly,  as  he  agreed,  across  the  ferry  to  the  extemporized 
studio  on  Chestnut  street. 

One  part  of  the  preliminary  business  was  the  visit  to  a  photog- 
rapher. He  knewofonewhocould be  "  bossed."  Heclimbedthe 
flights  easily  enough, but  the  heat  under  the  skylight  was  oppressive. 
He  doffed  his  coat  ar-d  sat  in  his  sl.irt  sleeves.  A  profile  I  have 
of  him  taken  at  that  sitting  shows  him  looking  very  old.  But 
the  Monday  following  he  seemed  to  have  laid  aside  ten  or  twenty 
of  his  years.  He  enjoyed  the  diversion  and  was  in  best  of  spirits. 
He  presented  me  with  a  choice  copy  of  "The  Two  Rivulets;  " 
choice  because  there  were  marginal  notes,  in  his  own  writing, 
24 


mt 


370 


7^"  HE   WALT   WHITMAN. 


of  much  interest.  He  vol'mteered  to  read,  if  agreeable  fo  me, 
while  I  worked.  I  suggested  the  entertainment  should  begin  with 
his  "  Mystic  Trumpeter."  "Then  you  like  that?  I  got  some- 
where with  that,  I  think,  myself." 

A  moment  of  turning  leaves,  then  the  word  "Hark,"  that 
begins  the  poem.  Off  my  guard,  I  stayed  my  hand  to  li  ten  for 
some  one  coming.  As  if  answering  my  gesture  he  continued, 
his  intonations  still  familiar  as  though  the  "mystic"  visit;  it 
and  he  were  old-time  comrades: 


..."  some  wild  trumpeter,  some  strange  musician, 
Hovering  unseen  in  air,  vibrates  capricious  Umes  to-night. 

I  hear  thee  trumpeter,  listening  alert  I  catch  thy  notes, 
Now  pouring,  whirling  like  a  tempest  round  me, 
Now  low,  subdued,  now  in  the  distance  lost." 

The  recitation  more  than  confirmed  the  report  of  his  gifts  as  a 
reader,  and  further  suggested  a  vindication  which  all  his  poems 
might  be  capable  of.  He  read  yet  other  things ;  passages  from 
"  Song  of  Myself,"  and  "  The  Singer  in  the  Prison."  He  told 
me  the  story  of  this  last  poem.  Parepa  Rosa,  singing  to  the  con- 
victs of  a  prison  in  New  York,  I  think,  furnished  the  theme.  An 
impressive  scene,  he  said,  one  ever  to  be  remembered.  Attracted 
by  his  vjice,  a  dozen  or  more  young  fellows,  who  had  come 
to  the  Fair  from  Oil  City,  softly  descended  from  the  upper 
floor,  and  stood  crowded  together  in  the  hall  without.  Their 
applause  breaking  the  hush  of  the  mon>ent  was  startling,  so  en- 
tirely unsuspected  was  their  presence.  It  was  as  though  the  very 
walls  were  rattling  their  approbation.  Whitman,  turning  his 
head  and  looking  steadily  to  reassure  himself  that  the  prison 
fellows  had  not  escaped,  cried,  "Come  ii."  There  was 
needed  no  second  invitation.  "So  you  like  it,  do  you? 
Well,  I  rather  enjoyed  that  myself."  Would  he  go  to  Oil 
City  and  read  like  that  ?  He  should  have  the  whole  city  out 
to  hear.  him.  The  money  consideration  should  be  something 
munificent. 

The  chambermaid  also  got  interested,  even  anxious ;  appearing 


^^^^e^^^ 


^ 


igreeable  to  me, 
lould  begin  with 
t  ?     I  got  some- 

;  "Hark,"  that 
md  to  li  ^ten  for 
:  he  continued, 
■lystic  "  visiti  it 


lan, 
to-night. 

notes, 


:  of  his  gifts  as  a 

ch  all  his  poems 

;  passages  from 

son."     He  told 

iging  to  the  con- 

l  the  theme.    An 

:red.     Attracted 

who  had  come 

from  the  upper 

without.     Their 

startling,  so  en- 

though  the  very 

an,  turning  his 

that  the  prison 

There   was 

it,    do   you  ? 

he   go   to  Oil 

whole  city  out 

d  be  something 


e 


;ious ;  appearing 


MY  SUMMlUt    WITH   WALT   WiriTMAy,  \m. 


371 


each  morning  late  as  if  bent  on  knowing  what   'twas  all  about. 
Slie  spread  a  torn  sheet  over  tlie  carpet,  and  eyed  the  performance 
with  a  dazed  sort  of  concern.     Growing  familiar,  she  poured  out 
her  own  story  of  folly  and  disappointment.     She  had  left  a  good 
home,  she  and  her  cousin,  in  far  away  Wales,   to  come  to  the 
Centennial,  where,  they  liad  been  told,  work  could  be  got  for 
the  asking  at  three  or  four  dollars  a  day.      Had  lost  her  cousin. 
Worked  five  weeks  on  promise  jf  five  dollars  a  week,  no  cent  of 
which  had  she  yet  received.     Would  I  as  lief  pay  my  rent  to  her?' 
"  Money,  money  !  "  exclaimed  Wliitman.     "  All  for  money  you; 
came  ;  lost  your  friend  for  money  ;  for  money  are  now  in  distress. 
Well,  to  an  extf  nt  I  can  sympathize.     But  if  I,    like   you,-  was 
well-to-do  in  one  place,  I'd  not  pack  my  duds  and  start  for 
another  for  mon&y." 

"  Oh,  no,  sir ;  but  we  wanted  to  see  the  Fair,  too." 

"  Have  you  ?  " 

"  No,  not  ytt." 

"IF/// you?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  will  do,  sir." 

He  took  the  address  of  her  cousin  as  well  as  she  could  give  it,, 
and  despatched  me  on  a  tour  of  discovery.  1  was  able  to  trace 
the  cousin  to  her  third  engagement.  No  clue  after  that.  Margie 
was  inconsolable,  but  the  Oil  City  boys  secured  her  her  wages. 
Sadder  and  wiser,  showering  blessings,  she  departed. 

It  was  pathetic,  yet  interesting.  I  came  upon  many  such 
wandering  souls  in  those  Centennial  days.  The  whole  event  lies 
in  my  memory  as  wonderfully  domestic  and  confiding.  Whit- 
man admired  the  act  of  the  Oil  City  fellows. 

When  I  returned  to  Camden,  in  1887,  Whitman  had  moved. 
I  asked  the  bootblack,  going  over  the  terry,  if  he  could  tell  me 
where  one  Walt  Whitman  resided.  He  responded  briskly,  rest- 
ing back,  flourishing  his  brushes  one  in  either  hand:  "  Wat,  'im 
as  wears  gray  and  speaks  to  all  on  us?  Don't  know  where  he 
/tves /    Anybody  '11  tell  ye.     You  jes  ask." 

On  my  way  I  made  several  inquiries  from  curiosity,  and  learned 
that  he  had  moved  to  Mickle  street.  One  young  fellow  volunteered 
to  go  and  show  me  the  very  house.    He  was  communicative ;  said 


m 


37a 


IS  liH  WAI.T  wHinity. 


i  t -i 


r 


toivirils  the  last  :  "  \)a  yoii  think  lie  is  riMlly  a  poet  ?  "  He  had 
rcail  him  s<>/»i',  hnl  was  yet  |>ii/.zleil.  The  "some"  meant  a 
poem  (opied  in  a  t'aimlen  paper. 

I  tomul  Whitman  imuh  more  erippleil,  and  ipiietcr  in  manner, 
than  wlien  we  ntel  before.  ICleven  years  had  wroiij^hl  their 
«  lian^'cs.  lie  wis,  howevei,  in  a  less  perturbed  frame  of  minil. 
In  itSyO  he  had  not  the  returns  troni  his  volumes  sent  to  I'ingland, 
and  was  undoul)tedly  poor  enough  in  po(  ket,  anil,  as  he  said, 
"  ilisposed  oecasionally  to  feel  blue."  lie  was  at  that  tin\c 
<piarlered  with  his  brother.  Ile«ame  in,  as  I  remember,  with 
sonu'thing  of  a  disheartened  air,  but  presently  was  speaking  m 
cheeriest  tones.  "  Wiiatever  happens,  I  ipiite  believe  m  the  olil 
worhl.  Take  it  for  all  and  all,  for  better  or  lor  worse,  in  siekness 
or  in  health,  I  « leave  to  it." 

He  now  reialKil  that  day  of  our  Cirsl  meeting  and  said:  "  I 
believe  that  must  have  been  alH)ut  the  darkest  jteriod  of  my  life, 
but  before  tiie  sumiuer  had  gone  there  eame  that  burst  of  sun- 
light over  the  sea.  The  money,  aiu!  the  frientlliness  of  it  all, 
turned,  the  tiile  and  made  me  about  the  happiest  critter  that  ever 
liveil,  I  t'elt  /,>(>  good  almost.  I  wondered  if  I  eould  stand  it. 
It  was  worth  living  lor,  anyway,  if  1  then  died  outright.  I''or- 
evermore  I  shall  love  old  Mngland.  It  all  comes  over  me  now 
ami  always  does  when  I  think  of  it,  like  a  great  succoring  love. 
Von  should  have  seen  the  tears,  Sidney — or  you  shouldn't. 
Willi  no  iliseounting  of  friends  at  home,  1  must  say  that  English 
Inisiness  stands  apart  in  my  thought  from  all  else." 

My  purpose  on  this  last  visit  was  like  unto  thai  of  my  first 
visit.  I  still  desired,  I  told  him,  to  make  the  "bust."  He  saiil 
lie  would  eheerfully  put  himself  at  my  disposal,  The  summer 
was  before  us,  and  nothing  else  impeiuling.  Me  wouUI  eng.igc 
himself  to  me  for  the  season.  "I'm  sure  you'll  do  better  this 
time."  So,  calling  Mary  Davis,  the  housekeeper,  he  had  "  the 
litter  of  everythin/;  under  heaven  "  poked  one  side  to  make  a 
cleaving  for  me  at  the  window.  We  brought  in  boxes  to  fashion 
a  stand  for  my  clay,  and  I  fell  to  work,  he  eyeing  me  curiously 
that  first  afternoon.  At  night  he  said  :  "Herein  the  dark  it 
quite  resembles  the  crittcv."    I  now  had  the  "  critter  "  all  to  my- 


litr  .sr.l/.VA.7v'    11777/    WAIT   WllirMAS,  IMn7. 


375 


?"     Ho  hail 
ic  "  meant  a 

cr  in  manner, 
cri)iii;l)l  their 
mic  of  mind, 
t  to  iMi^Lmd, 
1,  as  lu"  said, 
at  that  time 
nembor,  with 
i  speaking  in 
I'VC  in  tlio  oUl 
ic,  in  siikness 

nd  said:  "  I 
jtl  of  my  hfe, 
l)iirsl  1)1'  snu- 
loss  of  it  all, 
iltor  that  ever 
>uld  stand  it. 
itright.  iMir- 
over  mo  now 
i(<'orinj;  love. 
i)U  shouldn't, 
that  Knglish 

of  my  fust 

ist."  Ho  said 
'i'lio  suinmor 

would  eiij^agc 
)  bettor  this 
he  had  "  the 
e  to  make  a 

)xos  to  fashion 
me  curiously 

n  the  dark  it 
I.T  '  all  to  my- 


icir,  with  plenty  of  time  for  undislntbod  wcuk.  My  deep  salis- 
faction  o'orllowod,  I  think,  It)  the  housokooper,  wiio  admonished 
me  that  there  was  an  element  of  )m«  ortainly  ni  Mr.  Wliitman's 
programs  nowa-days,  and  sooner  than  she  eounted  on  were  her 
worvls  verified. 

With  the  next  morning's  salutations  the  damper  fell.  "I  lore's 
a  telej^iam  from  llerlc-rt  Ciihhrist.  lie's  in  New  York  and  will 
be  on  shortly.  He's  < oininn  to  pan\l  me.  1  had  forgotten  about 
him.  Hut  never  mind  ;  you'll  like  him.  We  can  put  him  over 
there  somewhere.  I  d<in't  set  what  I  t  .vn  do  to  stop  it.  He  han 
come  all  the  way  trom  ICugland  -from  I'lugland,  Sidney — to 
paint  me.     Make  the  best  of  it  ;  sliare  the  crust  with  him." 

1  (duhl  illy  ( OIK  e.d  my  disapponituienl.  1  coveted  tiie  whole 
lo.if  with  no  disposition  to  share  it  with  anybody  ;  was  half  a 
mind  to  pick  np  my  traps  aiul  go.  Hut  by  the  time  the  young 
man  appearetl  on  the  scene  in  person,  I  was  calui  once  more  and 
ready  to  be  pacified.  He  was  agiee.ible,  enthusi.isiic  ;  not  a  fel- 
low to  get  in  one's  way  at  all,  it  seemed.  I  touhl  keep  my  place 
at  the  window,  and  he  would  jilant  his  easel  a  little  way  in  the 
rear.  Whitman  need  not  <  hauge  his  position  ;  he  was  in  just  the 
right  light,  etc.,  ett  I  soon  became  (piite  as  much  interested  in 
Gilchrist's  tlesigns  and  expectations  as  in  my  own.  l''or  a  week 
we  kept  it  up,  working  some,  talking  more,  Whitman's  wistful 
eye  on  us  both.  Company  came — (hildien  by  the  dozen,  elderly 
people  pausing  at  the  oi)en  window.  ])cering  in  over  the  window- 
sill.  The  tiays  were  crowded  ami  wiurbed  by  callers  froni  near 
and  far.  Evidently  the  stress  of  al'  was  telling  on  the  poet. 
I  read  it  in  his  face,  and  in  the  cm  .d  look  on  Mary  Davis' 

face  when  she  came  in  to  put  thin:  'hts  a  little,  or  to  deliver 

a  message.  Finally,  consulting  her  .  finding  my  suspi<ions 
correct,  early  one  morning  I  betook  myself  with  my  whole  effects 
to  the  back  yard.  There  in  the  cool  shadow  of  the  house,  under 
the  propitious  sky  (when  it  was  juopitious),  with  high  boarded 
fence,  and  grape-vine  weaving  itself  into  a  pear-tree  for  a  back- 
ground, my  work  proceeded.  Occasional  excursions  to  the 
studio  in  front  for  memory-sketches  seemed  to  be  serving  me 
very  well.     Gilchrist  was  contrite.     Had  he  known,  he  would 


l!. 


I 


Nl 


f 

1 

\  1 

j. 

i 
i 

1 

374 


IN  RK   WALT   WlflT.HAX. 


have  put  his  work  off  and  left  nic  in  possession.  But  I  think  I 
roiivinccd  him  tliat  I  was  faring  quite  to  my  own  satisfaction. 
lie  seemed  to  be  laying'  in  so  splendid  a  piece  of  work,  1  could 
not  afford  to  forego  the  |>leasure  of  watching  its  progress. 

1  usually  stayed  with  Whitman  for  lunch,  Gilchrist  frequently 
joining  ns.  He  was  well  jiosted.  He  knew  all  the  Knglish 
friends  and  Whitman  got  in  his  reven^je  for  long  sittings  by 
making  him  entertiiin  us  charmingly  with  personal  anecdote,  and 
accounts  of  what  was  being  done  on  the  Hritish  Isle. 

Gilchrist  was  the  precursor  of  an  exodus,  it  fairly  seemed,  of 
literary  and  pleasing  characters  from  abroad,  who  confessed  to 
having  had  Walt  Whitman  on  their  list  from  the  start,  intending 
to  take  him  in,  as  one  young  girl  plirased  it,  if  they  missed  Ni- 
agara. The  young  lady  herself  was  of  a  party  of  three  from 
merry  Plngland,  who  ajipeared  in  the  door-way  one  noon,  radiant 
with  health,  a  beautiful  tableau.  "  Ah,  darlings,"  cried  Whit- 
man, through  tlie  hall,  from  his  seat  at  the  kitchen  table  :  "  Come 
right  this  way.  Herbert,  Sidney,  move  a  little.  Mary,  you  lay 
some  plates  and  bring  the  chairs."  It  was  a  delightful  afternoon. 
Aristocracy  or  democracy,  it  mattered  not  at  Whitman's.  Either 
party  fell  cheerfully  into  the  usual  way,  did  ample  justice  to  a 
"bite  of  roast  beef,"  a  cup  of  gooil  tea  poured  generously  by 
the  gray-bearded  host  himself,  with  perhaps  a  cup  of  custard  or 
piece  of  apple  pie.  "  Jolly  dinners  you  have  here,"  quoth  one 
distinguished  visitor,  notwithstanding  they  were  served  in  the 
little  heated  kitchen.  The  poet's  conversation  at  the  table  dif- 
fered from  his  talk  evenings  in  being  more  animated  and  in  touch 
with  current  topics.  We  were  the  privileged  recipients  of  some 
of  his  "best  things"  those  noon-times,  and  I  indulge  a  hope 
that  Herbert  Gilchrist  may  yet  be  forthcoming  with  remem- 
brances for  which  we  shall  all  be  grateful. 

It  may  be  remarked  here  that  Whitman  took  great  satisHiction 
in  the  managing  skill  of  his  housekeeper.  "Mrs.  Davis,"  he 
more  than  once  said  to  me,  "  has  a  knack  of  anticipating  what  I 
■want,  and  in  case  of  an  emergency  at  the  dinner  table  she  knows 
right  well  how  to  make  the  best  of  it.  She  has  rare  intelligence 
and  her  tact  is  great.     She  does  much  better  for  me  than  a  whole 


MY  SUMMER   WITH  WALT  WHITMAN,  1887. 


375 


But  I  think  I 
n  satisfaction, 
work,  I  could 
ogress. 

ist  frequently 
I  the  English 
ig  sittings  by 
anecdote,  and 
le. 
ly  seemed,  of 

confessed  to 
art,  inteiuling 
ey  missed  Ni- 
)f  tliree  from 
noon,  radiant 
'  cried  Whit- 
d)le :  "Come 
Mary,  you  hiy 
ful  afternoon, 
nan's.  Either 
lie  justice  to  a 
generously  by 
of  custard  or 
;,"  quoth  one 
served  in  the 
the  table  dif- 
1  and  in  touch 
ients  of  some 
dulge  a  hope 
with  remem- 

3t  satisfiiction 
i.  Davis,"  he 
paling  what  I 
ble  she  knows 
e  intelligence 
;  than  a  whole 


retinue  of  pompous,  bothering  waiters.  I  detest  the  critters, 
bowing  and  watching." 

There  was  yet  another  Mary,  old  Aunt  Mary,  we  called  her, 
who  came  to  clean  up  and  i)ut  things  to  rights  occasionally  from 
kitchen  to  cellar.  She  was  never,  however,  allowed  to  betake 
herself  with  her  scrubbing-oulfu  above  or  beyond  those  aj)art- 
ments.  She  would  ipiickly  have  put  things  all  wrong  had  she 
appeared  in  Whitman's  private  sanctum.  Siie  served  me  a  bad 
caper  out  in  the  door-yard.  My  high  brown-board  fence — 
worm-eaten,  moss-grown,  highly  artistic,  antique,  pictures([ue, 
serving  admirably  for  background — was  changed  one  day,  in  my 
absence,  to  a  spotless  white.  She  had  "'bin  deanin'  up,"  she 
told  me,  bound  that  Mr.  Whitman's  door-yard  should  not  have 
"  sech  a  disrespectable  api)earance,"  and  I  could  see  she  would 
have  banislied  me  with  my  dirt,  or  else  have  spattered  her  white- 
wash over  both  me  and  my  work  with  satisfaction.  Kor  she 
was  "  born  the  very  day  and  the  very  year  Mr.  Whitman  was 
born  on,"  and  "while  she  lived  was  bound  to  look  to  his 
interests."  It  was  not  until  my  "dirt"  had  taken  on  some 
semblance  of  her  hero  that  she  began  to  be  reconciled. 

"Your  Whitman-pictors,"  she  observed,  finallv,  "look  as 
much  like  him  as  a  dead  man  can  like  the  livin',"  and  she  hoped 
I  would  not  be  disappointed  about  "  sellin'  'em." 

She  had  a  voice  like  Charlotte  Cushman  in  "  Meg  Merrilies," 
and  could  have  been  cast  without  "  making  up  "  for  tlie  part  of  the 
Gipsy  Queen.  She  was  a  bundle  of  supersitions  ;  had  her  piety 
all  by  heart.  Though  scolding  with  energy  on  occasion,  she  was 
constant  in  proclaiming  the  duty  of  a  non-complaining  mind. 
One  day  I  chanced  to  express  a  regret  for  the  rain.  She  swiftly 
brought  me  to  task,  saying  that  I  "  must  not  go  agin'  God's 
will."  "  Does  God  make  the  rain?"  I  letorted.  "  He  doeth 
all  things,"  she  said  solemnly.  "Doth  he  drown  people?"  I 
persisted. 

"  Ef  they're  so  foolish  ez  to  go  in  deep  water,  and  they  can't 
swim,  He  lets 'em  pay  for 't.  He  doesn't  interfere  with  the 
devil's  work." 

"  But  how  does  your  Satan  get  work  to  do,  if  God  doeth  all  ?  " 


n 


-■g|jg'.k*j^^ 


376 


IN  RK   WALT   WIIITMAX. 


I  I 


■J 


"Oh,  never  yo\i  fear  for  //////.  He's  allers  aprowlin'  around 
lookiii'  tor  a  cliaiuc  when  God's  bark  is  turned.  Tlicrc  aint  a 
lazy  hair  on  his  head.  I  wish  I  could  say  as  much  for  some 
others." 

Whitman,  overhearing  the  "confab,"  was  not  sure  but  Aunt 
Mary  Iiad  the  best  of  it. 

Aunt  Mary  was  an  original  character,  and  I  am  sure  that  Whit- 
man enjoyed  with  the  rest  of  us  her  occasional  coming.  .She 
could  remember  most  back  to  General  Washington,  and  thouglit 
in  her  very  heart  that  a  country  tliat  could  boast  a  Washington 
and  a  Whitman  would  never  go  to  pieces. 

Among  the  visitors  that  summer  was  a  remarkable  man,  who 
came  all  tlie  way  from  Georgia — a  sort  of  pliilosopher-fixrmer, 
Whitman  described  him.  His  name  was  Joluison.  He 
stopped  at  the  hotel,  but  made  daily  visits  to  the  Wiiitmarl 
home.  Alone  in  the  deep  seclusion  of  his  farm,  that  "  ran  more 
to  weeds  than  it  should,"  he  hat!  read  "  Leaves  ofGrass,"  until 
the  jioems  were  to  him  as  familiar  as  his  copy  of  Lindley 
Murray's  grammar.  He  could  place  his  finger  on  any  line  of  any 
poem  yoti  might  name,  and  doubted  if  the  author  himself  knew 
his  Look  or  understood  it  as  well  as  he  tlid.  At  home,  his 
family  and  neighbors  had  poked  fun,  and  pronounced  him  not 
exactly  in  his  right  mind.  He  sought  relief,  temporarily,  by 
shaking  the  dust  of  Georgia  from  his  feet  and  making  this 
"v.sit  to  the  North-land,  where  dwelt  the  man  who  had  done 
most  for  him  after  Christ."  Emerson  he  was  also  familiar  with. 
"  Oh,  yes,  I  can  quote  Emerson,  too ;  'out  somehow  he  sets  my 
v'its  a  buzzin',  and  it  all  ends  in  a  headache.  But  reading 
Walt  's  like  sailing  a  calm,  unruffled  sea.  Witii  him,  'I  loaf 
and  invite  my  soul.'  With  Emerson,  it's  the  other  way:  your 
soul  invites  you ;  goes  nagging  after  you,  and  you  feel  as  though 
you  were  a  truant  and  a  sinner.  I  don't  like  to  feel  that  way. 
And  yet,  don't  mistake  me;  I  set  great  store  by  Emerson  ;  I 
place  him  among  the  gods.  '  Yourself  a  new-born  bard  of  the 
Holy  Ghost,'  he  says,  'cast  behind  you  all  conformity'  (that's 
what  I've  done),  'and  be  acquainted  at  first  hand  with  Deity.' 
That's  what  I've  tried  to  do,  too.     I  know  if  I  could  have  seen 


'■/^ 


vlin'  around 
There  aint  a 
:h  for   some 

re  but  Aunt 

•etliat  Wliit- 
)niinp.  She 
and  tliouglit 
Washington 

e  man,  who 

pher-farmer, 

inson.       He 

le  Wliitman 

t  •'  ran  more 

Irass,"  imtil 

of  Lindley 

y  line  of  any 

imsclf  knew 

d  home,  his 

red  him  not 

porarily,  by 

making   this 

in  had  done 

imiliar  witli. 

V  he  sets  my 

But  reading 

im,  *  I  loaf 

way :   your 

cl  as  though 

1  that  way. 

merson  ;  I 

bard  of  the 

ity'  (that's 

vith  Deity.' 

1  have  seen 


il/I'  SU.VJfRR   WITH  WALT  WITTTMAN,  1887. 


377 


Emerson,  I'd  found  him  a  right  royal  man.  Quoting  him 
again  :  '  We  mark  with  light  in  the  memory  the  few  instances  we 
have  had  in  the  few  dreary  years  of  routine  and  of  sin  ' — there 
it  is  again,  'sin.'  1  don't  take  to  that  wonl  nuuh,  but  iie  is  ta 
be  forgiven — '  We  mark  with  light  the  interviews  we  have 
had  with  souls  that  made  ^//r  souls  wiser  ;  that  spoke  what  ive 
thought  ;  that  told  u  vhat  ?tv  knew  ;  that  gave  us  /citvc  to  he 
what  we  really  were.  That's  the  whole  gosjicl  ;  to  give  each 
other  leave  to  be  what  we  really  are.  When  Jesus  said,  '  Tlie 
second  is  like  unto  it,  love  thy  neighbor  as  thyself,'  he  n^ight 
have  added,  and  the  third  is  like  unto  it :  give  thy  neighbor  , 
leave  to  be  what  he  really  is.  I  put  the  emphasis  on  the  | 
'  really,'  for  that  secures  you  a  first-class  fellow  all  the  time.  You 
see  I  believe  in  heredity  some,  not  altogether,  for  nobody,  no 
human  si)irit,  I  mean,  is  ever  quite  cut  off  by  his  descent  from 
communion  with  what  your  Concor  1  man  calls  '  the  Holy  Ghost.' 
Heredity,  after  all,  is  no  more  than  skin  deep.  Once  a  fellow 
gets  his  dander  up  and  decides  to  be  himself  rt'i///)',  then,  hered- 
ity to  the  fom-  winds." 

And  much  more — too  much  of  truly  interesting  talk  both  for 
Whitman's  nerves  and  my  |)resent  use.  He  took  me  aside  one 
day  confidentially  to  say  :  "  I'd  like  well  to  say  it  to  Walt 
himself,  but  I'm  'fraid  he  wouldn't  exactly  take  it  right.  You 
see  when  I'm  down  home  I  often  take  mv  gun  and  go  gunning 
for  'possum,  and  when  I  come  along  to  a  spot  where  I  see  one 
has  been,  I  says  to  myself,  '  The  old  varmint's  been  here  as  well 
as  I.'  So  when  I  used  to  read  Whitman  I'd  keep  comin'  to 
ideas  i)erfectly  familiar  to  me.  I'd  been  there  before,  and  I'd 
say  same  as  I  did  of  the  'possum,  '  The  old  varmint's  been  here  ;  ' 
and  by  and  by  I  come  to  the  conclusion  that  there  warn't  no 
place  he  hadn't  been.  And  I  'spose  that's  why  I  took  to  him, 
he  told  me  what  I  knew,  spoke  what  I  my.self  had  been  thinking. 
When  a  man  does  that  for  a  fellow,  it's  easy  to  believe  him 
great."  Then  after  a  little  he  resumed,  and  this  time  even  more 
confidentially:  "  To  tell  you  the  truth,  though,  I  own  I  am  a 
leetle  disappointed.  Somehow  the  man  don't  come  up  to  his^ 
poems.     He  ain't  so  hearty,  so  hail  fellow  well  met,  so  much  a 


37« 


/,V  lili   WALT   WlllTffAN. 


1 

1^ 

p 

'   K 

1 

8 

(Icinonat  as  I  expected  to  find  him.  In  fart,  lie  seems  a  little 
starchy  anil  rcpollont  ;  he  checks  a  feller  in  his  ailvanccs  and 
won't  (iiiitc  let  him  come  to  familiar  conversation.  I  have  to 
sit  and  admire  him  at  a  distance  about  as  I  did  at  home  before 
I  came."  Mrs.  Davis  had  explained  to  him  ll\at  Mr.  Wiiitnian 
was  perfectly  friendly,  but  had  to  luisband  his  strength  in  order 
to  get  through  the  hot  days.  He  had  taken  that  into  considera- 
tion, and  yet — "after  I've  come  all  th''  way  from  old  Georgia." 
He  made  his  visits,  however,  stayed  two  or  three  weeks,  even 
longer  than  he  intended  to  do,  and  went  home  consoled  and 
happv.  sending  on  in  advance  as  herald  of  his  return  copies  of  a 
Camden  newspaper  that  contained  extended  complimentary 
notice  of  his  personality  and  of  his  visit  to  Camden,  written,  I 
suspect,  by  Walt  Whitman  himself.  "That'll  convince  'eni 
down  home  thai  I'm  not  without  honor,  save  in  my  oian  ,ontifry. 
And,  as  they  all  believe  in  the  Scriptcrs  down  there,  1  suppose 
I  may  sc(>rc  a  point  against  them  as  a  prophet." 

Confirming  what  Mrs.  Davis  had  said  of  Whitman's  need  of 
defending  himself  against  too  great  excitement,  I  told  him  of 
the  labor  agitator  who  called  one  afternoon  to  persuade  Whit- 
man to  introduce  him  to  a  Camden  audience.  The  man  was  the 
happy  possessor  of  a  loud  voice  and  in  manner  was  quite  im- 
perious.    The  conversation  ran  somewhat  like  this : 

"  1  have  solved  the  problem,  Mr.  Whitman." 


\\\  !  " 
In  my 


own  miiu 


*•  The  right  spot  to  begin." 
"  I  believe,  in  tact,  I've  settled  the  matter." 
"  Oh  !  " 

"  Now  to  convince  the  world.     You  yourself  have  struck  the 
key-note." 
"Thanks." 
"  Your  words  are  a  great  re-inforcement  to  the  cause." 


Tl 


lanks. 


And  so  (Ml  for  ten  minutes  or  more,  tlio  man  standing  with 
hat  in  hand  orating,  Wliitman,  when  there  came  a  lull,  looking 
tip   from    perusal   of    his    letters,    interposing    his   "thanks." 


ims  a  little 
/antes  and 

1  have  to 
oinc  before 
■.  Wliilman 
;th  in  Older 
)  consitlera- 
1  C.eorgia." 
iveeks,  even 
tisolcd  and 

copies  of  a 
ipliinentary 
,  written,  I 
invincc  'em 

,  1   suppose 

m's  need  of 
iold  liim  of 
sunde  Wliit- 
iiuin  was  the 
IS  quite  im- 


e  struck  the 


use. 


anding  with 

uU,  looking 

"thanks." 


MY  SUMMF.n    WITH    WM.T   WKITiMAN,  1N87. 


379 


Finally,  the  man,  grown  weary  or  perceiving  he  was  making 
little,  if  any,  progress,  suddenly  iirouf^ht  up  with  : 

"  Well.  Mr.  Whitman,  I  think  I'll  lake  my  leave." 

"Thanks." 

Not  until  after  he  had  departed  did  the  inopportuncncss  of 
his  response  become  manifest.  He  was  not,  however,  greatly 
disturlu'd  in  conseciueuce.  Tho  man  did  not  strike  him  as  a 
per^-.on  wlio  could  be  profoundly  (onversant  witli  any  problem. 
He  hail  sipiarcly  told  him  he  could  not  go  to  the  church,  was 
unable  even  to  ( onsider  the  matter;  "yet  the  fellow  kept  on 
spouting."  Tiic  labor  problem,  as  a  practical  (piestion,  be- 
longed to  younger  heads  than  his,  if  there  really  was  any- 
thing to  be  said  i>r  done  about  it.  He  was  not  sure  but  things 
were  working  well  enotigh  as  they  were,  evolving  in  their  natural 
course  far  better  results  than  any  theory  of  socialism  could 
promise.  ICvils  were  being  sloughed  off  about  as  fast  as  they 
could  be,  he  thought.  IJut,  he  couldn't  go  into  it.  'I'licre  was 
more  talk,  anyway,  on  the  subject  than  was  warranted  by  the 
situation,  or  good  for  the  workingmen  themselves.  So  far  as  he 
could  see  there  was  as  much  "cussed  seifishuess"  on  the  one 
side  as  the  other.  It  was  a  (piestion  of  manhood,  if  anything. 
Workiiigmen's  strikes  were  apt  to  develop  little  of  that.  Tiiey 
would  set  on  their  fellow-workingmen  who  didn't  belong  to 
their  "union"  like  tigers  or  other  beasts  of  jtrey.  It  was 
their  "  union  "  against  the  world.  Tiie  s|)ectaclc  was  not  ))leas- 
ing.  "  Let  the  worker,  whoever  he  be,  accejit  the  situation, 
and  triumph  on  the  side  of  his  manliness  in  spite  of  it.  Then 
he  would  bring  to  his  side  the  world's  sympathy.  Let  him  ride 
down  his  temptations  to  be  mean  and  niggardly,  even  in  dire 
extremitv,  as  a  hero  would,  and  his  cause  is  won.  T,et  him  say  to 
the  'scab.'  'Thy  necessities  are  as  great  or  greater  than  mine,' 
rivalling  Sir  Philip  Sidney.  '  How  can  a  man  be  hid  ?  '  old 
Confucius  asked.  How  tan  he?  or  depoiled  ?  No  capitalist 
can  rob  any  man  of  his  manhood.  When  the  labor  agitation 
is  other  than  a  kicking  of  somebody  else  out  to  let  my.self  in,  I 
shall  warm  up  to  it,  maybe." 

At  other  times  he  betrayed  an  anxiety  in  behalf  of  the  "  masses 


11 


\ 


!l 


■  ^ 


i 


I'l'lii  irtinfiiiiiMgniir 


t 


^V'^o 


rx  ka;  ir.i/.7'  whituax. 


driven  to  llio  wall,"  ami  felt  tliat  somclnnv  the  KopiiMii-  was  not 
sale  wliiU-  "  anyboily  waa  lu-inij;  so  diiven."  Ho  t  oinn\oiule(l 
nnil  gave  me  rarnegic's  book  on  "  Tiinnipliant  Denioemcy,"  tts 
rontaining  nun  li  tliat  was  "  itbont  so  anil  gratifying, " 

1  pnt  lliis  conversation  down  in  hiai  k  and  wliito  one  day,  all 
he  ha»l  j\ist  said  to  nie,  and  asked  hin\,  "  Will  yon  sign  tlial  an 
yowY  whole  and  final  deliverance  on  the  liilun-  issuer  " 

After  a  pause  : 

"  No,  Sidney  ;  I  don't  think  so.  I  .fi»/,/it.  iMtt  s\  fellow  don't 
like  to  sign  anvthinj;  as  '  final  '  or  '  full  '  -not  while  he's  alive, 
anyway.  Von  nni'^l  ronipan"  thai  with  something  else  I  may  say 
some  dav,  if  yon  want  the  '  fmal  '  and  '  full.'  " 

lie  kept  the  paper  tor  some  time,  pr«»mising  to  put  in  some 
"  emend, itions,"  hnl  linally  it  got  lost.  Of  tourse  I  was  not 
»piite  serious  abo\it  the  signing,  mu-  diti  he  look  <>n  the  proposi- 
tion gravely.  \  d,\y  or  two  there.ilier  he  returned  to  thesubjei  t 
afresh  :  "  .\s  summing  of  all  my  thoughts.  I  wish  vo\i  tosav,  that 
I  am  for  the  working  >nan  ;md  \'ov  everv  man  ;  wish  he  should 
have  all  that  is  inst  and  best  for  hii\i,  as  I  wish  it  for  everv  i\>an. 
Ihit  he  should  m.ike  his  tause  the  e.nise  of  the  maidiness  of  all 
'  fnep  ;  that  ass\neil,  eviMV  effort  he  mav  make  is  all  right.      I  wish 


he  wotild  put  il  down  as  his  motto; 


Not 


ling  shall  get  mv  man- 


hood down  ;  I  will  not  dii'  k  muler  as  a  man  to  anv  ralanulv.  no 


more  than  |ob  diM. 


.\  contribution  to  the  labor  auitation  that 


mav  not  more  applv  to  the  labor  c.mse  than  anv  other  caiise,  but 
il  is  .1  "search  light  "  nmch  needed  there  as  elsewhere. 

I  had  said  to  Whitman  thai  it  would  be  well  if  some  wise  re- 
porter, like  his  Mystic  Tnmipeter.  "  hovering  imseen  in  air," 
could  take  jiassing  notes  of  hi-;  home-life,  his  conversation  with 
\isitors  and  friends,  and  so  give  his  bieiids  ever\  where  a  more 
authentic  account  of  him  than  biographers  and  critics  were  able 
to  ofler.  He  assented  to  the  idea  heartily,  saving  he  fell  the  lack 
of  reality  in  so  many  of  the  reports  and  reviews  sent  in  to  him, 
(he  touch  of  nature  that  lay  in  ficls,  and  suggestcil  that  1  might 
"condescend  to  the  task— wilhonl  taking  on  the  invisibleness." 
To  that  end  he  procured,  or  fished  from  his  pile  of  valuables  on 
the  floor  a  "  bran    new    notebook  "    which    he   proceedeil   to 


K 


jjmmmm.f 


jIIc  was  Hot 

i)t  racy,"  as  ' 

lit-  (lay,  all 
igi)  tluU  as 

I'llnw  ilon't 

lu-'s  alivi', 

I-  I  i\»ay  say 

ml   in  some 

I   was  not 

ho  proposi- 

>  tin'  silhjort 

to  sav,  tliat 

ho   sliotiltl 

ovorv  man. 

inoss  of  all 

;ht.      I  wish 

[ot  inv  iiian- 

alamitv.  iu> 

citation  that 

I-  cadse,  but 

c. 

lie  wise  ro- 
ll   in  air," 
sal  ion  with 
10  a   more 
s  woro  ahle 
oil  I  ho  lark 
in  to  him, 
lat  1  might 
isihlonoss." 
ihiablos  on 
oooodcd    to 


ffy  s('\t.ur:n  with  wait  ii7/;7'im,v.  imh?. 


.v"^» 


"ilotliratc."     I  am  provcntotl  from  giving  n  fiiisimi/f  of   this 
tloili(  ation,  but  it  ran  as  followH: 

"Wall  Whitman,  May  a,^  1SH7.  S.  M.  M.  (Camtlon,  N.  j.), 
Sinlpiiig  W.  W ." 

"  I  pill  in  Iho  srnlpinif,"  ho  said.  "  to  lot  lliat  o'orshadow  the 
roportorial  rnm'ion.  i'ho  ro|)orlor  may  '  hover  unseen  '  in  the 
sculptor."  I  mado  110  doubt  llial  I  should  fill  tho  book,  (some 
Olio  hiiiuln"d  and  lilly  pages),  boloro  iho  siimmor  oiidod.  Hut  to 
my  doop  rogrot  it  lios  boloro  mo  now  aboiil  as  blank  as  whon  it 
«aino  IVom  Iho  binder.  'I'ho  trouble  was  ho  but  seldom 
indiilgod  in  "talks"  imlil  alter  the  evening  shadows  began  to 
(all.  and  my  pom  il  had  to  \\\m\  its  way  by  a  sort  of"  iiistiiu  I.  I 
found  to(i  that  I  had  not  been  bred  lo  it.  l,isloiiiiig  inlet  leied, 
niul  I  put  od"  innoh  writing  that  I  might  the  bettor  listen,  anil 
oonid  never  (|uite  oiili  h  on  to  the  reality  of  it  again.  I  am  sorry. 
In  those  shadowy  hours,  silling  in  his  seat  bv  the  window,  wah  h- 
iiig  the  silhonoltod  shadows  ol  passing  men  and  women  -the  sort 
t)f  company  of  whom  ho  never  tired-  -ho  mellowed  into  gentle 
<-oiifidoncos.  and  llie  tones  of  his  voice,  low  and  musical,  cairicd 
Kiich  persuasion  and  charm,  one  was  indisiiosed  to  break  in  upon 
them  even  by  tl  e  scrah  liiiig  of  a  pt-ncil.  i  lis  talk  at  that  time  was 
chielly  relrospoclivo  of  men  and  things  ;  or,  if  I  gave  him  the 
«aie,  of  himself.  It  was  on  one  such  evening  that  ho  took  ii|)  his 
big  swan-tpiill  pen  and  set  down  the  following  data  for  my  use 
if  t  desired  il,  loiniiig  over  with  pad  on  window-sill  lo(alch  the 
last  of  the  davlighl.  Of  course  il  was  intended  for  my  spec  iai, 
piiv.ile  use.  Hut  il  has  often  seemeil  to  me  thai  his  many  friends 
would  fool  a  real  interest  in  seeing  llie  lialf-jiago  of  MS,  just  as 
lie  hastily  scratt  hod  il  down.  Mill  of  course  the  im|)orl  is  pre- 
served in  type  : 

"  '  Leaves  of  (iiass,'  ho  should  say,  was  conlinually  the  expres- 
sion, in  a  sense,  of  the  faith  that  was  in  him,  but  never,  or  very 
seldom,  an  expression  of  Iho  reasons  for  iho  failh.  The  poems 
were  always  merely  exclamatory,  giving  a  man  successive  joys, 
bolheralioiis.  special  sights,  passiinis,  moods,  ctr.,  etc,  from 
Iwenlv-fivo  lo  sixty-five  years  of  ago.  amid  the  inllueiices,  en- 
vironmculs  and  people  of  America,  North  and  South,  East  md 


382 


IN  RE   WALT  WIIinfAy. 


K 

i 


West,  not  only  amid  peace  but  amid  war.  I  found  that  he  believed 
in  free  trade,  anti-slavery,  the  full  human  and  political  equality 
of  woman,  and  thought  that  the  world  was  governed  too  much. 
Yet  he  was  conservative  too.  He  thcugiit  the  family  organiza- 
tion and  the  marriage  institution  the  basiis  of  perniancnt  social 
order.  Of  theology  he  thought  matters  were  about  right  and 
going  on  right  as  ^hey  are — including  the  churches  and  includ- 
ing the  spirit  of  free  inquiry. 

"When  I  was  with  Whitman  it  was  the  hot  summer  of  '87, 
and  he  was  in  his  sixty-ninth  year.  He  lived  in  a  little  property 
of  his  own,  a  small  wooden  house  in  Mickle  street,  Camden,  New 
Jersey.  He  was  physically  very  infirm  ;  he  had  been  paralyzed 
for  fourteen  years — a  result  of  his  too  zealous  and  long-continued 
labors  during  the  secession  war,  on  the  battle-fields  and  in  the 
hospitals.  But  he  retained  good  spirits  and  was  always  cheery  in 
his  own  way  without  exception.  He  had  a  good  color  and 
weighed  over  two  hundred  pounds.  In  manners,  though  hearty 
and  emotional,  he  had  a  certain  dignity  and  reserve.  He  took 
a  daily  bath,  lived  rather  abstemiously,  liked  a  good  drink  of 
champagne,  and  dressed  in  a  suit  of  thin  woolen  Canada  gray, 
Mrs.  Davis,  a  young,  strong,  good-looking  Jersey  woman,  a 
widow,  was  his  cook  and  housekeeper.  I  don't  think  a  man 
ever  existed  so  utterly  Midifferent  to  criticisms  and  slanders; 
(there  were  even  then  seme  in  circulation  very  amusing  and 
strange  to  those  who  knew  him  well).  He  wrote  generally  two 
or  three  hours  a  day,  and  often  went  out  for  a  drive  in  a  phaeton 
that  his  friends  had  presented  him  with.     He  drove  h.mself." 

The  effort  fiiligued  him  and  ended  our  evening.  "  I  think  it 
is  all  right,"  he  said,  as  he  bade  me  good-night  to  go  upstairs, 
"that  one  should  like  to  have  himself  reported,  if  he  must  be 
reported,  truthfully.     I  guess  that  hits  tolerable  near." 

My  "  note  book,"  though  meager  of  treasures,  may  as  well  be 
yielded  up  here,  and  about  in  the  order  set  down. 


When  W.  W.  made  his  Western  trip  in  company  with  J.  W. 
P'orney  and  others,  the  party  stopped  at  Topeka.  Among  those 
at  the  hotel  where  they  put  up  was  the  sheriff  of  that  part.     He 


Ml'  SUMMER    WITH   WALT   WIflTMAy,  1887. 


383. 


lat  lie  believed 
itical  equality 
ed  too  much, 
uily  organiza- 
tTianent  social 
out  right  and 
s  ar.d  includ- 

nmer  of  '87, 
'.ittle  property 
Camden,  New 
:en  paralyzed 
ing-continued 
s  and  in  the 
'ays  cheery  in 
d   color  and 
hough  hearty 
e.     He  took 
od  drink,  of 
]!anada  gray, 
;y  woman,  a 
think  a  man 
id  slanders; 
imusing  and 
[enerally  two 
in  a  phaeton 
himself." 
"I  think  it 
•  go  upstairs, 
f  he  must  be 

ly  as  well  be 


r  with  J.  W. 
Imong  those 
t  part.     He 


invited  W.  and  his  friends  down  to  the  jail  to  see  some  twenty 
or  more  Indians,  captured  by  the  government  and  kept  in  the 
jail-yard.  The  sheriff  went  out  and  spoke  to  them  ;  told  them- 
of  the  distinguished  party  there,  but  they  paid  no  attention. 
Forney  went  out  and  others  followed.  .  .  .  But  no  look  or  wordt 
from  the  dusky  prisoners  except  the  first  side-glance.  Then  W. 
VV.  went  out.  The  old  chief  looked  at  him  steadily,  then  extended 
his  hand  and  said  his  "  how."  All  the  other  Indians  followed, 
surrounded  Whitman,  shaking  hands,  making  the  air  melodious 
with  their  "hows."  Tlic  sheriff  could  not  understand  it.  "I. 
confess,"  said  W.  W.,  relating  thisstory,  "that  I  was  not  a  little 
set  up  to  find  that  the  critters  knew  the  difference  and  didn't 
confound  me  with  the  big  guns  of  officialism." 

"Did  you  know  Felton,  his  Ancient  and  Modern  Greece?' 
No?  you  ought.     Well,  here's  a  specimen.     Let  me  memorize 
it  for  you : — 

"'The  Greeks  considered  man  as  placed  in  the  center  of  a 
harmonious  universe.  As  he  looked  upon  the  objects  of  nature 
their  colors  not  only  pleased  him  by  their  variety,  but  combined 
in  an  harmonious  effect  upon  his  organs  of  vision.  The  sounds 
of  nature,  the  song  of  bird,  the  voices  of  the  winds  and  the  waves, 
filled  his  ear  agreeably,  and  impressed  his  mind  with  an  indefina- 
ble sense  of  harmony.  Forms  also,  the  varying  surface  of  the 
earth — the  outlines  of  the  hills — the  myriad  varieties  of  trees, 
animals,  and  men — the  ever  shifting,  ever  beautitul  clouds  flit- 
ting across  the  sky,  stirred  within  him  a  rhythmical  perfection' 
which  did  not  wholly  distinguish  itself  from  the  harmony  of  sound. 
These  objects,  too,  were  in  life  and  motion  ;  and  this  motion,  in- 
determinate as  it  may  be,  has  a  regularity  and  a  rhythmical  prog- 
ress ;  while  some  of  the  objects  of  nature  which  strike  the  senses 
the  earliest  and  the  most  deeply — the  stars,  for  instance — move 
on  in  their  silent  courses  in  such  solemn  order  that  the  imagina- 
tion of  man  in  the  primitive  ages  conceived  an  unheard  music 
of  the  spheres,  which  the  philosophers  themselves  did  not  refuse 
to  believe  ;  and  the  moral  adaptation  between  man  and  the  world 
constituted  an  ethical  harmony  never  to  be  lost  sight  of  when  we 


!  y> 

m 


i 


384 


IN  RE   WALT   WIirniAN. 


«         ! 

■A 


endeavor  to  reproduce  to  our  minds  the  thoughts,  feelings,  and 
speculations  of  the  ancient  world.  On  these  primitive  harmonies 
the  fine  arts  were  built ;  harmony  and  form  ripened  into  sculp- 
ture, architecture,  and  plastic  art  generally;  harmony  of  color, 
combined  with  form,  was  embodied  in  painti.ig  and  the  arts  of 
designing ;  harmony  of  sound  found  its  artistic  expression  in 
music,  poetical  rhythm,  and  impassioned  expression  in  oratory ; 
harmony  of  motion  was  brought  into  order  and  system  in  the 
rhythmical  and  modulated  movements  of  the  dancer,  and  in  the 
refinements  of  the  orchestric  art. 

"  '  But  there  was  a  deeper  harmony  still  that  blended  all  these 
special  rhythms  into  one,  and  constituted  that  music  which  the 
ancients  conceived  of  as  the  basis  of  civilization  and  the  essence 
of  instruction.  To  them  the  natural  man  was  not  the  savage 
running  naked  in  the  woods,  but  the  man  whose  senses,  imagina- 
tion and  reason  are  unfolded  to  their  highest  rejch  ;  whose  bodily 
forces  and  mental  powers  are  in  equipoise,  and  in  full  and  healthy 
action  ;  who  has  the  keenest  eye,  the  surest  hand,  tiie  truest  ear, 
the  richest  voice,  the  loftiest  and  most  rhythmical  step ;  whose 
passions  tliough  strong  are  held  in  check,  whose  moral  nature 
runs  into  no  morbid  perversions,  and  whose  intellectual  being  is 
robustly  developed ;  whose  life  moves  on  in  rhythmical  accord 
with  God,  nature,  and  man,  with  no  discord  except  to  break  its 
monotony  and  to  be  resolved  in  the  harmony  ot  its  peaceful  and 
painless  close.  This  is  the  ideal  being,  wliose  nature  is  unfolded 
without  disease,  imperfection,  or  sin,  to  perpetual  happiness  and 
joy.  Tliis  is  the  ideal  education  such  as  the  ancient  teachers 
conceived  it.  This  is  the  ideal  music  into  which  all  the  harmo- 
nies of  the  world  were  blended.  This  is  the  ideal  man,  the 
musical  man,  of  whose  possibility  the  ancient  philosopher 
dreamed.' 

"  You  can  say  that  that  is  by  •  le  absolutely  indorsed.  I  got 
the  book  when  I  first  went  to  Washington  at  the  commencement 
of  the  war,  and  it  was  a  great  enlightenment  and  consolation  to 
me.  Have  read  it  a  thousand  times  and  more,  and  know  it  most 
all  by  heart.  Felton  was  a  great  old  fellow.  He  didn't  have  so 
much  harmony  as  he  talked  of;  no,  not  he.     He  was  going  to 


3/r  SUMMKH    WITH   WALT   WHITMAN,  1887. 


38s 


,  feelings,  and 
live  harmonies 
ed  into  sculp- 
iiony  of  color, 
md  the  arts  of 

expression  in 
)n  in  oratory ; 

system  in  the 
:er,  and  in  the 

■nded  all  these 
usic  which  the 
lid  the  essence 
lot  the  savage 
nses,  imagina- 

whose  bodily 
ill  and  healthy 
tiie  truest  ear, 
1  step ;  whose 
:  moral  nature 
actual  being  is 
hmical  accord 
pt  to  break  its 
5  peaceful  and 
re  is  unfolded 
happiness  and 
cient  teachers 
ill  the  harmo- 

eal  man,  the 
philosopher 

orsed.  I  got 
mmencement 
onsolation  to 
know  it  most 
idn't  have  so 
was  going  to 


force  things.  I  used  to  talk  with  the  ministers  of  Greece  about 
his  Modern  Greece,  and  I  found  his  lectures  ruled  even  in 
Athens." 

"  Dant<?  is  the  greatest  exemplifier  of  simplicity  and  meager- 
ness  in  expression." 

"  A  point  to  insist  upon  as  a  fact  is  that  VV.  W.  was  in  no  sense 
an  adventurer,  seeking  notoriety." 

"  Napoleon  had  the  element  of  the  spectacular  with  many  ex- 
cellent traits ;  probably  he  had  to  have  both.  Lincoln  was 
destitute  of  the  spectacular,  a  fore-seer  of  events.  Morally  and 
mentally  the  healthiest  man  that  ever  lived — and  the  cutest. 
Very  fortunately,  loo  for  him,  for,  if  he  hadn't  these  elements, 
God  knows  what  would  have  become  of  him." 

"  A  man  has  a  great  advantage  in  the  time  of  trouble  by  under- 
standing how  things  must  turn  out.  Add  patience,  and  he  can 
stand  the  racket." 

"  I  am  not  a  i^ractical  joker  myself,  not  a  believer  in  practical 
joking  of  any  kind ;  it  is  a  nuisance  to  me." 

"  The  South  don't  seem  to  realize  that  the  best  average  dom- 
inant feeling  through  the  North  is  and  always  has  been  that  of 
brotherly  equality.  They  seem  to  think  it's  a  strife  between 
sections,  and  not  the  saving  grace  of  freedom.  No  abolitionist 
ever  hated  a  Southern  slave-holder  as  he  did  a  Northern  '  dough- 
face.' How  Lincoln  would  have  taken  the  whole  South  to  his 
heart  as  a  hen  gathereth  her  chicks  under  her  wing,  but  they 
would  not.  Northern  soldiers  may  be  said  to  have  almost  gone 
into  battle  with  a  sigh,  that  is,  after  the  first  year  or  so,  when 
they  came  to  find  out  what  brave  fellows  the  secesh  were ;  and 
the  moment  they  surrendered  and  Lee  told  of  their  destitution 
not  a  Northern  soldier  but  would  give  his  last  supper  to  the  men 
he  had  fought  and  learned  to  love. 

25 


m 


ff! 


t  t 


i  ; 


'■f 


M 


I    i 


5 


386 


rv  /;:is:  walt  winnrAX. 


"  Hut  your  Soutlicrner  is  proud,  and  then,  it  is  never  so  easy 
to  forgive  when  you  are  whipped  as  when  you  whip." 

He  has  a  great  respect  for  the  reign  of  Queen  Victoria,  even 
admiration.  Thinks  Tennyson  should  do  his  best  on  her  birth- 
days. Some  of  *^f.  fellows  from  the  Queen's  dominion  calling 
to-day  expre  ^reat  reverence  for  her  majesty  :   "  A  soggy 

old  woman,"  said  one,  "with  just  wit  enough  to  mind  family 
affair;;,  hoard  her  revenues  and  keep  out  of  politics.  We  all  feel 
if  we  but  had  an  intellectual  monarch,  what  a  i)ower  in  the  realm 
she  might  have  been  for  literature,  for  art,  and  the  great  himian- 
itarian  reforms."  To  which  Whitman  replied:  "  History  will 
tell  another  story  of  your  Queen  ;  q".i^p  another.  It  will  sum  up 
a  half  century  of  splendid  achievements,  with  your  Queen  not 
unsympathetic,  nodding  approval,  if  standing  aloof;  as  though 
she  said,  speaking  for  England,  'See!  my  English  are  cpiite 
capable  of  taking  care  of  themselves.'  Keeping  out  of  politics, 
you  say ;  what  a  virtue  that  is !  And  it  takes  real  greatness  in  a 
woman  who  has  opportunities  by  the  yard  not  to  put  her  finger 
in  every  pie.  Don't  go  back  on  your  Queen.  Just  to  have  sat 
there  enthroned  for  fifty  years  and  see  it  all  go  on — it  would  do 
my  eyes  good  to  set  them  on  even  that  sort  of  majesty.  Maybe 
she's  not  brilliant.  You  English  are  none  of  you  over-brilliant. 
But  you  are  a  brainy  set  and  know  how  to  hang  on  to  things 
(good  things)  when  you  get  your  holt.  What  a  galaxy  of  im- 
mortal names  in  this  Victorian  reign  !  " 

This  radical  was  a  true  Englishman  after  all.  As  I  jotted  in 
the  dark  his  response,  I  fancied  a  square  jaw  with  a  gratified 
smacking  of  lips:  "Yes,  you  are  quite  right.  We  may  not  be 
just  satisfied  with  the  Queen,  nor  with  Gladstone,  nor  with  Lord 
Tennyson  (he  would  have  stood  higher  with  us  had  he  refused 
the  title)  ;  but,  of  course,  we,  you  know,  believe  in  old  England's 
glory.     It  far  enough  exceeds  her  shame." 

" is  a  curious  mixture  of  what  one  likes  and  despises  all 

the  time.  Born  with  the  fatal  silver  spoon,  he  has  never  got  it 
out  of  his  mouth.     Takes  on  airs  like  a  peacock ;  struts  and  twirls 


MY  SUMMER    WITlf    M'ALT   WIllTMAX,  IHft;. 


387 


s  never  so  easy 
ip." 


I  Victoria,  even 
St  on  her  birth- 
ominion  calling 
sty:  "A  soggy 
to  mind  family 
cs.  We  all  feel 
wer  in  the  realm 
le  great  hiiman- 
"  History  will 
It  will  sum  up 
our  Queen  not 
oof;  as  though 
iglish  are  quite 
out  of  politics, 
il  greatness  in  a 
o  put  her  finger 
Just  to  have  sat 
)n — it  would  do 
lajesty.  Maybe 
u  over-brilliant, 
ng  on  to  things 
a  galaxy  of  im- 


his  goggles.  So  much  for  the  bad  o{  him.  For  the  good,  he  is 
the  most  honest  (intellectually)  man  I  know  of;  loves  the  poets, 
is  simplicity  itself  in  adoration  of  them  ;  bows  to  science  and. 
believes  in  innnortality.  (lenerous  to  a  fuilt,  he  yet  holds  fast 
his  great  wealth  for  some  great  dream  of  his  which  he  will  realize,. 
I  half  believe,  in  spile  of  his  foppery." 

[This  note  stands  without  name  for  some  reason,  and  I  have 
not  the  most  distant  idea  of  whom  he  was  speaking.     I  preserve, 
it,  however,  as  sign  of  W.  W,] 

"  Harncd  is  a  stormer — a  valuable  man  generally  ;  up  to  all  the 
best  things,  and,  surprising  enough  (for  lawyers  don't  so  much 
go  that  way)  for  his  transcendental  tastes.  I  feel  jjropped  up 
against  all  my  shortcomings  when  he  is  about.  He  brings  cheer 
and  a  substantial  basis  with  him." 

"  Of  course  Bucke  is  the  biographer,  but  others  have  said  much 
to  my  liking.     I  think  more  and  more  of  Marvin's  piece  in  the 
Radical Kcvicw.     How  is  Marvin?     Where?     He  has  rare  in- 
sight— is  a  poet.     Perhaps  he  is  thrumming  something  great  to- 
be  heard  of  some  day.     I  like  Marvin." 

"  Don't  tag  after  anybody,  however  great.  Develop  what  you' 
have,  or,  what  you  have  not,  was  an  idea  with  me  when  quite 
young." 


I 


As  I  jotted  in 
with  a  gratified 

We  may  not  be 

,  nor  with  Lord 

had  he  refused 

1  old  England's 


and  despises  all 
has  never  got  it 
struts  and  twirls 


"Civilization  and  culture  come  like  the  weather,  from  count- 
less sources." 

"Character — the  best  part  of  any  person,  or  any  reading,  or' 
any  work  of  art ;  that  which  is  worth  any  sort  of  summing  up — 
not  necessarily  now  or  ever  possible  perhaps,  the  saintly  char- 
acter, but  the  virile,  cute,  creative  part  of  man  or  woman ;  it  is 
that  which  delights  and  saves  the  earth  from  getting  to  be  too 
stupid  a  place  for  mortal  man  to  dwell  on.  Mere  amiability, 
sweetness  —  sweetness  without  light  —  oxen  and  cows  furnish 
that." 


388  /A"  Rl''    ^y^I'T  WlinMAS. 

"  Christianity  is  a  very  creditable  thing  to  the  human  critter 
who  lias  built  it  up." 

Forney  inaugurated  the  idea  of  giving  Whitman  a  lift  in  the 
form  of  a  lecture  on  "  Elias  Hicks,"  but  the  custodian  of  the 
hall  refused  tJ  allow  its  use,  giving  as  his  reason  that  "Hicks 
did  not  believe  in  the  atonement."  Whitman  dismissed  the 
matter  with,  "  Who  shall  atone  for  so  great  a  piety  ?  " 

"  I  detest  lemonade  and  all  sort  of  guzzling.  If  one  is  going 
to  drink  anything — champagne,  abstemiously  taken,  goes  to  the 
spot  and  don't  make  a  fool  of  a  fellow.  A  copious  draught,  also, 
not  from  habi:,  but,  for  inh.ance,  as  the  boys  say." 


Two  fellows  come  in  after  twelve  o'clock,  noon-time,  for  "  sat- 
isfying reasons"  for  believing  certain  necessary  things.  After 
they  are  gone,  Whitman  : 
.  "Anything  that  pleases  me  I  can  stand  pretty  well,  but  not 
this  unrolling  an  argument  like  as  a  fellow  unrolls  a  carpet — end- 
less; nothing  beyond." 

A  friend  in  the  East  writes  me  her  special  request  that  I  should 
"  soimd  Whitman  on  the  great  theme  of  God  and  Immortality. 
His  opinion  would  go  fiir  with  me."  But  I  cannot  lay  myself  out 
for  a  siege  of  that  sort.  In  the  first  place,  I  have  no  reason  to 
suppose  that  he  knows  more  definitely  than  other  mortal  the  so 
or  not  so  of  these  long-discussed  topics.  Casually  I  have  heard 
him  observe  that  he  believed  in  immortality,  but  it  was  not  a 
matter  that  could  be  "disposed  of  to  a  twice-two-are-four  cer- 
tainty." He  believed  it,  but  had  no  "reasons."  I  had  heard 
Emerson  say  something  similar,  and  a  great  number  of  other 
people.  "  Not  a  subject  for  dogmatic  i)osing,"  Emerson  said. 
Whitman  like  most  other  people  spoke  the  word  God,  but  with- 
out profane  repetition.  The  word  served  when  all  else  failed. 
Epicurus  declared  to  his  disciples  that  he  knew  of  but  one  thing 
juore  foolish  than  to  affirm  the  existence  of  the  gods,  and  that 


mman  critter 


n  a  lift  in  the 

iiodian  of  the 

that  "Hicks 

(lismisseci  the 

f  one  is  going 

:n,  goes  to  the 

draught,  also, 


time,  for  "  sat- 
thiugs.     After 

:y  well,  but  not 
a  carpet — end- 


;st  that  I  should 
d  Immortality, 
t  lay  myself  out 
no  reason  to 
mortal  the  so 
y  I  have  heard 
it  was  not  a 
,vo-are-four  cer- 
I  had  heard 
umber  of  other 
Emerson  said. 
God,  but  with- 
all  else  failed. 
)f  but  one  thing 
gods,  and  that 


MY  SUMMER    WITH   WALT   WHITMAN,  1887. 


389 


was  to  deny  their  existence.     Whitman  believed  God,  but  with 
no  limiting  dcflnitiun  or  detail  of  attributes  : 

•' I?i»  ihoURhts  nre  the  hymnii  of  the  prni«e  of  tJiingi, 
III  the  dii|)utc  on  God  and  eternity  he  is  silent." 

"  Feb.  38,  '88— Noon. 
[From  a  private  letter :]  "  Eakins'  '  pict. '  is  ab'l  fmislicd — It 
is  a  portrait  of  power  and  realism,  (*  a  poor,  old,  blind,  despised 
and  dying  king  ').  'rhin^^s  with  me  ab't  the  same.  Mrs.  D.  i* 
well — is  in  the  back  room  working.  My  canary  is  singin'  away 
as  I  write." 

The  "  canary  "  and  the  "  good  gray  poet  "  are  great  friends. 
"  He's  intelligent,  like  my  lord  Hacon,  after  his  own  fashion, 
and  a  jealous  critter.  How  he  scolds  when  strangers  pop  ir» 
without  being  formally  introduced."  '•  Critter  "  seems  to  be  a 
a  word  of  special  endearment  with  him. 

I  find  his  "canary"  has  been  made  the  subject  of  a  "special 
verse,"  worth  quoting  here  : 

"  Did  we  count  great,  O  soul,  to  ]>enctr,'\te  the  themes  of  mijjlity  books,. 
Absorbing  deep  and  full  from  thoughts,  plays,  specul.itions  ? 
Bui  now  from  thee  to  me,  c.iged  bird,  to  feel  thy  joyous  warble, 
Filling  the  air,  the  lonesome  room,  the  long  forenoon, 
Is  it  not  just  as  great,  ()  soul?  " 

Speaking  of  the  Emerson  dinner  at  Parker's,  he  gave  with 
relish  the  following : 

Emerson. — Now  what  will  we  have  to  top  off  with  ? 
W.  fK— What  are  these? 
Jt.  W.  E. — I  don't  know  ;  we  will  see. 
W.  ^— But  if  we  don't  like  them— 

H.  W.  E. — Then  will  we  eat  what  is  set  before  us,  asking  no 
questions. 

Letter  received  Sept.  19,  '88 ; 

"  Camden,  Wednesday  P.  M, 

Dear  S.  H.  M. — Am  surviving  yet  and  in  good  spirits  (sort) 

after  the  past  nearly  four  months.     Am  still  imprisoned  here  in 


19° 


IX  UK  WAf.r  wnmtAx. 


my  silk  room,  unable  to  move  an)mul  or  ^d  out  at  all — hut  have 
my  brain  power  as  before  and  right  arm  voliti«)n — (now  reihued 
to  thorn,  what  great  blessings  tlieynrcl) — November  Houghs  is 
all  done,  printed  and  press'd.  and  wails  the  binding — will  send 
vou  one  as  soon  as  I  gel  it — then  I  am  to  have  a  iH)mplete  W.  W. 
in  one  900  v»)l.  {(})  1..  of  (1.,  Spec  Days,  and  Nov.  H. — all 
and  several  condensed  in  one — this  is  now  going  through  the 
presses. — Your  bust  of  me  still  holds  out  fully  in  my  estimation. 
I  consider  it,  (to  me  at  any  rate),  the  best  and  most  t  hararlcr- 
isiir,  really  arlislie  and  satisfaetory  rendering  of  any — so  llio't  by 
me.  'I'lie  bust  of  Klias  Hi«ks  pleases  and  satisfies  me  first  rale — 
goes  to  the  right  s|)ot. — The  little  armchair  statuette  is  here 
(as  when  you  left  it)  and  must  not  be  forgotten.— It  is  valuable 
t'xceedingly. — Horace  is  invaluable  to  me — I  couldn't  have  done 
anvthing  with  the  printing  without  him — Whether  I  shall  gel  out 
of  this  slough  remains  uncertain.  I  au\  comfortable.  I.ove  to 
you  and  all  iiupiiring  friends.  Waip  Wiiiiman." 

My  last  afternoon  at  Wall's  was  to  me  both  a  sad  and  pleasant 
■one.  He  was  muisually  grave  and  inleni  on  rescuing  something 
from  his  pile  on  ihe  Hoot  that,  appaienlly,  eludeil  ali  the  magical 
poking  of  his  cane,  t  did  not  ask  what  he  would  find,  or 
«iiTcr  assistance.  I  knew  he  liked  to  be  let  alone  in  such  emer- 
gcm  ies.  aiul  of  all  tilings,  dreadeil  the  interfering  hand  that 
would  dislurb  the  order  of  his  possessions  heaped  about  him. 
('iciierallv  there  was  no  trouble.  He  knew  the  exact  location  of 
about  every  article,  book,  pamphlet  or  letter  which  he  desired  ; 
lull  this  time  he  was  bafllcd.  Several  times  he  rested  and  re- 
turned to  his  search.  Hut  toward  night  he  pul  the  cane  by  re- 
signedly, settled  back  in  his  chair,  wrapped  tlie  big  biifTalo  robe 
about  him,  mused  awhile,  and  then,  speaking  low,  sai«l : 

"  It's  of  no  conseipience,  Sidney,  but  1  wish  very  much,  if  you 
ever  cotnc  to  think  well  of  it  vouiself,  you  would  make  just  a 
simple  bas-relief  of  my  hospital  days.  Just  a  suggesiion — a  cot 
with  soldier  boy  limp  and  listless  on  it.  and  put  me  in  some- 
where, j>erhaps  there  by  his  side.  I  tried  with  pencil  this  morn- 
ing to  indicate  my  feeling  .is  to  what  it  should   be,  but   it  got 


all — but  have 
(now  reduced 
)cr  Houghs  is 
ig — will  send 
mpletc  W.  \V. 
Nov.  U.— uU 
;  thiongli  Ihc 
uy  est  i  mill  ion. 
ost  ( haiactci- 
) — so  tlu)'t  hy 
mc  llrst  lale — 
Incite  is  heic 
ll  is  vahiablc 
lii't  have  done 
I  shall  get  out 
blc.     I.ovc  to 

Will  IM AN." 

d  and  pleasant 
ling  soinclhing 
ili  the  magical 
v(inld  find,  or 
in  such  emcr- 
ing  hand  that 
'd  about  hiui. 
\t  I  location  of 
•ll  he  desired  ; 
rested  and  re- 
le  cane  by  re- 
lig  bulTalo  robe 
,  said  : 

v  much,  if  yon 
d  make  just  a 
;;gestion — a  cot 
me  in  some- 
ncil  this  morn- 
be,  but   it  got 


MY  SUMMER    WITH    WAIT   WIltTMAN,  \>i^T. 


39  « 


spirited  away.  I'd  like  that,  scorns  to  mc,  more  than  anything, 
and  to  have  you  do  it.  They  were  the  precious  hours  of  my 
life.  My  mother's  love  and  tlie  Idvc  of  those  dear  fellows,  se<  csh 
or  union.  It  was  awiul,  or  would  have  been,  had  it  not  been 
grand.  They  took  it  all  in  the  most  matter-of-fact  way.  No 
complaining.  'Ihe  fate  of  war.  One  rebel  boy  (juoted  Emer- 
son (^he  had  been  to  Harvard  or  Yale) — 

"  '  Wlmrvcr  tinlit",  whoever  fnlln, 
JUKlite  C()ni|UriH  cveinioic' 

"  It  seemed  to  mc  all  the  while  not  that  I  was  away  somewhere, 
out  nursing  slnmgeis,  but  right  at  home  with  my  own  flesh  and 
blood.  So  it  was.  No  tics  < ould  be  dearer  than  bound  me  to 
each  and  all  of  them,  My  heart  bled  hour  by  hour  as  for  its 
own.  1  don't  know  wliy  I  go  talking  to  you  on  a  subject  I 
usually  keep  sacredly  loc  ked,  but  I  must  show  you  the  little  note- 
books with  the  blood  smudges.  I  tried  to  edit  them  for  the 
printer,  but  it  was  like  phukiiif;  the  heart  out  of  them.  1  wish  I 
could  find  what  1  made.  Hut  yon  will  undcrstaiul — something 
simple  and  artistic  ;  just  a  thought  showing  me  liicre.  If  I  find 
it,  1  will  seiul  it. 

"'A  spcclivl  vci'sc  for  you — w  (Insh  oflicnuty  Iniij;  ne^leclnl — your  myslic  roll 

strnn(;ely  (xiillicrcit  licrr, 
Kttcli  immc  recullcil  liy  \w  from  out  llio  dnrluicM  and  dcnth's  ashes, 
lleiiccforili  to  he,  dee)>,  deep  within  my  hctirl  rccordinj;,  for  miiny  u  future 

yenr, 
Vour  mystic  roll  entire  of  unknown  immes,  or  Noilh  or  South, 
Emlinlmed  witii  love  in  this  twilight  son^;.'" 

He  sat  up  later  than  usual  that  night.  When  it  was  time  for  mc 
to  go  he  said  simply  :  '•  We're  all  going  somewhere  ;  you  know 
the  rest." 

lie  was  sitting  calm  and  pale  in  the  dim  light  .as  T  jjassed  the 
wimlow,  the  mortal  already  ])utting  .)n  immortality,  it  seemed  to 
me.  A  great  life,  and  *'  through  it  all  Iw  kept  the  poise  of  a 
great  soul." 


saamBaaaBBg 


*\\\.'h  l:(\()v  rtMil  >>«l<«irtiiUnl  lh^^^lnl\^«,  iiiirtrd  in  rt  iln>i<  wlirn  ilu-ic  mi',  n<i  \\\\\ 

»(m\iiu<!U\l  ciMiii.lointinn  \\\  (l\(<  iMr^oMii-  ol  tUrti  \)t\l>iunvU-.|  il<^||^|ii  wMi-h  t 
trtKif »»  the  hlHiii?**  rthil  l»»rtveiy»il  rtll  \m\   \\A\%  oml  lli.onjltix      ||  U  ni'i 

nnSv*?.  ...  I  W\i  yo«  til  v\\\\\\\  WW  mwimjj  vowt  (unii  pmni<i  Ihmm*. 

WdPN    t  !«ho<>1<    lM\n.!l    with    lllm    ll\i'»i'.   nl    \hv    iloiM   i>|    |(U  lllllr    lin\l«r    i|( 

[\\M  «»l  n'ri^n  I'ltiT  to  Irtrr  (|\c  « iscM  iHdl  Hi-Mi-:!,  [Uv  IUH«(  IMllv  IJH'nl,  n|  nil 
ttM>i<rv«  lUHrtVV  «\oiv  1  hom?  \T»,  U  I  w\  ipnvcil,  »o  loult  i(|.nn  Idm  n(^,iln, 
ri>v  well  t  l<r\i«v\  \\\.\[  \\\v  <':\\\\\  ItKliU  nn  ■ixili  in\iithi't  i(\iii»«\  Nm  iln  I  wdie 
thi"  wdhlhr  w4M  Iumo  wtn^stttp  hI  rt  Imh.  Inn  i\'»  thi- rrtlin.  .IrKlvirtlP  |>tiln(Hent 
or  rt  mrtM  Whrt  i»  frtt^  I^P*^*^!!  nil  IHptiWV  (MriUlcrlliMW  iM  prt-oitiMt*  111  Wrtlt 
\VtM(n>rtn  \  si'r  ninn'  |l\'iii  rt  www  uirtkci  nl  no(<nii«.  I  ■«»•»•  rt  |'<'i"!mi'illh  i\nilliV* 
\\i  \^wV.  i?vrn  nlnni'  \h:\\  i>(  Soiirtii-x,  rtUiii  i<vrii.  ilioii^li  \<s\\\>\  rttiil  Im  illMrtnt, 
1oO\rt»  or  lUm  who  (■«  OollMilrlTil.  rtlld  llyllllv.  Il>r  lilol  nr  torll  I  Idiow 
<li:M  (I  ihrtt  Oili>'«  wrir  lirir,  Ilix  vrrcpllon  (ii  Now  ^Ml^lrtMll  iniiit\(  |tr>  vi-lV 
nonli  till'  »rtiop.  1  luinw,  iiMi,  ilirti  In  ■^unn'  ilrtv  ni>(  xn  (rniKic.  lutnmiillv  will 
wonilrv  \h(\\  www  i\»«l>l  iUvpII  xiile  h\  xdlo  willi  lliW  rti|i<«M<i,  rtml  iH'i  icrtlifp 
lii«  pn>iMMii<Mi'».     \\>  \\A\v  olhri-  im<e»<«t  Uw\  \\v  \\a\v  w<\  <^\\\>\  .livlnc  pnri. 


i 


U-    IMP,  1<<I    Vi>l( 

■iUll'I'Injj  i\lii>i(l 

\\\o        \\    U    \\y'\ 
'MM*. 

Imir   IdMtii'  In 

^IVCII   (n   H«r 

ilv  mrnl.  Ill  rttl 

'HW   l\li»t  tiyiUti, 

Niii  ill!  I  wtllc 

icmli'  iniliin\rn> 

!|i>n<!      In  \Vi\U 

!«»imlllv  WiMlliy 

\\\\\\  (ii«  ilWlrtHi, 

i\\i'H       1    loinw 

(Hl|tl\l    l-r    Vi'W 

.  (\iiin;>nilv  \\\\\ 

t\\\A   (»nl  lrnUf»» 

llvlttP  I'l'r-t. 


Tilt'    lAsr  Sl(  KNI-SS  AND  Till    Dl  AMI  ()!■ 
VVAI  I    \Vllir^\AM. 


«f  lyusihl.  n*,\\;.i\tkK. 


\\\\  I  WmiMVN'q  liHl  '(It  l(iic<»q  Id  iciililv  tlsilr-i  rmiii  lili^  V""iii» 
♦tf  liu'tniiiil  wimI<  Im  iMrn  r,.  iiMil  Miiniiiiiliil  III  lltjil  liiiii'  in  Mvii 
t'iui<«iN  till-  llmi,  lilt' I'luitlinitid  «ii;iinni  iliti^c  ii'idlih*  yt'tUM  i  ilio 
Hpittiul,  liluntl  |toimilllltn  illtqiiilti'il  Imm  rniliiid  ^lllt^ll'||ll|l1 
^VMnmh  in  |>;illi'Hh  wlintii  lif  nl  llini  liiiif  i  limi'lv  nlli'iiiliil.  In 
iMft)  lUiil  iMftt;  III'  liiiil  lt'm|uti!n  V  Itii'iik  iliiwnq,  iiMil  llii")!' i  nl- 
hiinjilrtl,  in  t.innitiv.  iMy^,  in  nn  niioik  nl  iintulvtiM,  wlilt  It  wmm 
Ult'ttlly  ilUHlrtViUril  (liiiliiH  llif  ^iinic  vim  In  llu'  iIi'mIIi  nl  iii'i 
Miolhri-,  Till-'  |i!U;ilvii'<  innti'  lluni  min'  I'IimihIiI  liini  In  ili'iilli''* 
lliuil.  It  li'l  np  il  Hull'  in  lIu'  hilr  icvi'Mlir^  ,iit(|  I'tulv  I'inlilii'M, 
llu'H  m'tlli'il  down  lliii  kct  lli;u\  rvci  hi  llir  lull-  I'i^ililifM,  iinil 
uli'nililv  il»'H|ioi\i'il  nniil  llip  mil 

Miiilv  III   lH()i    my  IVIcliil   llniiiic  I,    Tiiitiliil  luiknl  nic  !n  m't* 

Wllilinini    plnrt'oiiiinullv.       Il    W;l"    niilv  Mltn     MnliU'    |i'imii(<iinM,   I 

lu'lii'M',  lliiil  Wliilniiin  liiiil  iiiju'i'il  In  nii»'|ii  ilii'  m'lviri'M  nl  ii 
jilivii  iilli.  nlltinnuli  Ills  llipliih  liflil  Inl  mtini'  tiino  lirt'll  i|niU' 
Rnlirilnnq  illinilt  Ilii  ili'i  llliiDK  liritltli. 

I  "(Ililll  lint  Iniupl  (nv  fll<il  ilnlil  III  illlil  illlflvirW  Willi  liiin, 
Pi'illi'il  nn  llli!  uli'iil  miu  I  Illlil,  (III'  liiirli  I  nvi'iril  with  II  wnll  inlir, 
lie  tiilil  nil'  till'  |i;lllii  nlillfl  nl  Ills  iilii'.  WIt.it  I'miri  iiillv  ini|ilrMBrtl 
WW  Wils  llu'  IllHlltli'l  In  wilicll  lip  minkr  nl'  Ills  Villiniiq  mih-IIm  nf 
Mil  knp''«  iriul  nl  till'  fniii  llomtl  Imiililps  rtiiiiMvliiH  lilin  nl  Hint  liiiii'. 
Il  Wrts  t\  foniiprlPil  uiiil  mrlluHllriil  ici  iliil.  in  llint  llific  wni  llllli' 
nn  imiiin  Fnl  i|ll('Mlinil'^  nn  niv  |iiltl.  I  ir^lcl  lint  linviii^  innilc  iiny 
Iliiti'R  nl  tllH  mill  lilt'  Mnl)Mi'i|ili'nl  vinih  ilill  iiifjt  tlir  rnilv  |H"tinil  nf 
\\\y  iittPiutiUR'C  oil  hint ;  witii  li  inin  <  liiitirc  iiiiikpn  i(  iiit|)n<mllitp  for 


II 


II 


il 


394 


IN  lit:    WALT   WHITMAN. 


•nic  to  record  here  the  full  particulars  of  this  history,  given  me 
by  him  at  ihnl  time  with  such  complotoiioss. 

As  iisuai  with  old  persons,  Wi\itman's  memory  of  remote  was 
better  than  of  receni  events  lie  dwelt  more  fully  on  the  details 
of  hin  blood-poisoning  from  the  gangrenous  wound  of  his  hand, 
and  of  the  paralysis  whi<  h  had  occurred  almost  twenty  years  be- 
fore, than  on  those  of  his  last  serious  attack,  in  iH.SM.  Speaking 
of  his  persDiial  habits,  he  told  me  he  had  always  been  temperate 
though  he  ha<l  not  been  a  total  abstainer;  that  he  did  iu)t  use 
tobacco  ;  that  he  had  never  had  any  venereal  disease.  I  le  feared, 
sonietimes,  that  he  ate  too  nmch.  Locomotion  was  difVicult.  lie 
moved  about  awkwardly  with  the  aid  of  his  cane,  yet  declined 
assistaiK  e.  Sensation  was  little  if  at  all  impaired  in  the  arms  or 
the  legs.  'I  lie  grip  of  his  hand  was  good  and  with  not  more 
than  the  normal  difference  in  strength  between  the  left  and  the 
right.  I'lxamiihation  of  heart  and  lungs  showed  these  organs  in 
good  comlition.  He  had  some  slight  trouble  in  the  upper  respira- 
tory tract,  and  this  he  denominated  his  old  attack  of  "  grip."  His 
arteries  were  in  fairly  good  condition,  which  surprised  me. 
There  was  little  or  no  atheromatous  degeneration  ascertainable  in 
the  temporals  or  radials,  which,  from  the  history  of  paralysis,  I 
had  expei  ted  to  \\\\k\. 

In  spite  of  the  absence  of  evidences  of  gross  organic  disease, 
his  apparent  age  was  greater  than  his  real  years.  His  present 
trouble,  he  siiid,  was  a  "  tor|)or,  want  of  peristalsis,"  and  dilTi- 
cult  and  insuflicient  evacuation  of  the  bowels.  There  were  also 
n\'(pient  calls  to  void  uriin".  l'"or  this  purpose  ho  would  liave  to 
.irise  several  times  during  tlie  night.  Tiie  trouble  was  due  to  an 
enlargement  of  the  prostate  glanil — a  condition  existing  in  many 
men  passed  the  age  of  sixty  years.  It  usually  entails  nmch  suf- 
fering and  distress,  and  admits,  except  by  smgical  interference, 
only  of  palliation. 

in  addition  to  these  ftmctional  disturbances  Whitman  com- 
jilained  of  great  lack  of  energy.  "  Inertia,"  he  explained — "as 
though  a  great  wet,  soggy  net  were  spread  out  over  me  and  hold- 
ing me»lown."  More  or  less  constantly  |)resent,  it  was  tmaffecied 
•l)y  atn\ospheric  t  hangcs  or  conditions.     For  some  months  m)w 


i 


LAST  SlCKIVIuSS  AND  DKATIt  OF   WALT   WHITMAN. 


.195 


y,  given  me 

remote  was 
n  Ihc  dclaih 
of  Ins  liuml, 
ity  years  bc- 
!.  Speaking 
L'n  liMnpcnUc 
2  tiiil  nol  use 
Ho  feiireil, 
(lilVicnU.    Ho 

yd  declined 
II  the  ill  ins  or 
ilh  nol  more 
e  left  anil  llic 
lese  organs  in 
(ipper  rcspira- 
"grip."  His 
^tirpviscd  mc. 
H-erlainahle  in 
i)f  paralysis,  I 

iganic  disease, 
His  present 
I  difli- 
icre  were  also 
would  have  to 
was  due  to  an 
isting  in  many 
tails  nmch  suf- 
il  interference, 

^Vhitman  com- 
xplained — "as 
r  me  and  hold- 
was  imaffected 
no  months  now 


lis,"  anc 


he  had  left  his  room  but  seldom  and  had  not  been  out  of  the 
house  at  all.  Ife  promptly  passed  a  soft  rubber  catheter,  and 
expressed  surprise  that  the  operation  was  so  easy  and  painless. 
No  argiiiiiff  or  coaxing  was  retpiired,  as  is  almost  always  necessary 
when  tills  procedure  is  instituted.  1  finally  prescribed  for  him  a 
stoma*  hit  and  laxative  pill,  and  tokl  him  I  saw  no  reason  why  he 
should  not  soon  again  be  going  out  into  the  air,  which  I  felt  very 
necessary  to  the  re-establishment  of  his  former  energy.  His  nurse» 
Warren,  I  was  assured,  was  ([iiite  proficient  in  the  art  of  massag- 
ing, and  this  treatment  was  ordered  to  be  (ontinued. 

At  subsc(iuent  visits  of  this  time  Whitman  would  hand  me 
memoranda  similar  to  the  notes  usually  kept  by  nurses.  These 
were  in  ink,  often  on  the  inside  of  an  o|tencd-out  envelope,  or 
on  the  reverse  of  a  sheet  bearing  a  re([uest  for  his  autograph 
from  some  distant  collector,  or  on  some  similar  odd  bit  of 
paper. 

On  Man  h  20th,  the  day  following  my  first  visit,  he  wrote  (in 
part):  "Took  the  jiills — had  a  couple  of  slack-roasted  oysters 
for  breakfast,  with  a  little  coffee  and  small  biscuit  of  (Iraliam 
meal;  have  now  taken  eight  of  the  pills."  (Jn  the  21st  he 
wrote:  "Took  a  pill  first  thing  this  morning  ;  a  passable  night 
past,  must  have  slept  five  hours."  Monday,  March  23d,  he  con- 
tinued :  "  Mxira  heavy,  inert  condition- — listlcssncss,  leaden 
non-volition — sweat  ratiier  easily,  eat  almost  nothing — no  appe- 
tite— no  bowel  action  at  all.  Void  water  fairly,  used  the  ( alheter 
last  evening,  it  worked  fairly.  2  :  .^o  r.  M.,  limited  (but  sort  of 
decided)  bowel  voidancc,  bronze  color,  consistence  of  dough, 
no  watery  discharge,  no  llatiilence.  Continued  the  pills — taken 
two  to-day."  Wednesday,  Mart  h  25th  ;  "  Took  the  fifteenth  pill 
first  thing  this  morning  early.  Hreakfast ;— farina,  roast  apple 
and  two  or  three  mouthfuls  of  broiled  steak.  Must  have  had  a 
passable  night's  rest."  Saturday,  March  28tli :  "A  ])ill  first  thing 
this  morning  ;  a  little  oatmeal  porridge  for  breakfast,  small  cup 
of  cocoa  at  noon.  No  bowel  impulse  this  forenoon — head  heavi- 
ness— dullness  extra  last  evening  and  to-day.  Must  have  slept 
off  and  on  from  11  to  6  with  some  waking."  "  Head  heavy  and 
some  distress,"  he  writes  on   March  30th,  "but  a  shade  of  im- 


i' 


i! 


$ 


396  IN  SE   WALT  WHITMAN. 

provement  in  general  strength  and  poise  (less  horrible  inertia 
and  weakness,  bad  enough  tho'  yet)." 

These  are  mere  extracts  from  his  daily  notes.  They  evince  a 
remarltable  degree  of  cooperation  and  reveal  at  the  same  time 
powers  of  observation  and  description  of  the  minutest  details 
that  would  be  a  credit  even  to  a  physician. 

Tlie  following  observation  is  as  interesting  as  it  is  unique. 
He  styled  it  "^   Crut/e  Notion'': 

"  My  great  corpus  is  like  an  old  wooden  log.  Possibly  (even 
probably),  that  slow  vital,  almost  impalpable  by-play  of  auto- 
matic stimulus  belonging  to  living  fiber  has,  by  gradual  habit  of 
years  and  years  in  me  (and  especially  of  the  last  three  years), 
got  quite  diverted  into  mental  play  and  vitality  and  attention, 
instead  of  attending  to  normal  play  in  stomachic  and  muscular 
and  peristaltic  use.  Does  this  account  for  the  stomachic  non- 
action, non-stimulus?     Or  what  is  there  in  this,  if  anything?" 

A  great  deal,  I  was  obliged  to  confess.  "April  15th,  i  o'clock," 
he  writes  in  a  letter:  "  Went  out  in  wheel  chair  fifteen  minutes  ; 
warm,  bright  sun,  flustered,  headache — eyes  badly  blurred — 
(first  time  out  in  four  months)." 

Again  :  "  May  loth.  Am  feeling  this  deadly  lassitude  and 
weakness  to-day  the  same  still.  One  favorable  item  at  10,  a 
bo'vel  movement  (the  first  in  ten  days),  viscid  quite  definite 
mostly  formed,  brown,  no  g't  straining  (no  use  of  the  syringe). 
If  this  is  the  result  of  the  new  pills  they  are  very  welcome  for 
that  obstinate  deep-set-in  constipation  is  the  back  and  bottom  of 
all  our  v/oes  (and  seems  come  to  stay).  I  got  the  pills  soon  after 
I  yes'.erday  afternoon  and  took  one — then  near  5  another — then 
at  9  this  morning  another.  Had  a  tolerable  night.  A  rare  egg 
on  Graham  toast  for  breakfast — coffee  ;  have  been  moist — skin 
half  sweating  the  last  15  or  20  hours.  Am  sitting  here  in  the 
big  chair  in  my  den  as  usual." 

Again:  "June  7,  1891,  Sunday  ev'ng,  4:  30 — Have  just  had 
my  2d  meal,  mutton  and  rice  stew,  wet  Graham  toast,  &c.  ;  re- 
lished fairly — drank  a  little  of  the  Rhine  wine — take  the  granules 
(3  to-day).  No  motion  of  the  bowels  now,  I  think,  five  perhaps 
six  days.      To-day   easier  (negative) — freer   from  the  horrible 


rible  inertia 

"ley  evince  a 
le  same  time 
utest  details 

t  is  unique. 

jssibly  (even 
play  of  auto- 
lual  habit  of 
three  years), 
id  attention, 
ind  muscular 
machic  non- 
anything?" 
1, 1  o'clock," 
sen  minutes ; 
ly  blurred — 

lassitude  and 
tem  at  lo,  a 
juite  definite 
the  syringe). 
■  welcome  for 
id  bottom  of 
ills  soon  after 
nother — then 
A  rare  egg 
moist — skin 
I  here  in  the 

lave  just  had 
•ast,  &c.  ;  re- 
e  the  granules 
,  five  perhaps 
the  horrible 


LAST  SICK'y ESS  AND  DEATH  OF   WALT   WHITMAN.    397 

deathly  sinkiness  of  yesterday  and  Thursday — have  been  sitting 
up  reading  and  writing  all  day — had  one  or  two  visitors,  excused 
myself. 

"  liorace  Traubel  still  in  Canada,  having  a  good  time  I 
guess.  Expect  him  back  last  of  the  coming  week.  A  half-med- 
ical acquaintance  was  in — said,  ♦  You  look  all  right — surely  there's 
nothing  the  matter  with  your  health  ! '  Didn't  know  whether  to 
take  it  as  compliment  or  the  other  thing.  (Ah  !  this  immovable 
block  of  constipation.)" 

These  extracts  give  a  more  realizing  sense  of  his  condition 
during  these  days  than  could  any  words  of  mine.  I  was  in- 
formed in  a  letter  received  from  Dr.  R.  M.  Bucke  at  this  time: 
*'  Mentally  Mr.  W.  is  failing  a  good  deal.  Makes  slips  now  that 
would  have  been  impossible  for  him  a  very  few  years  ago.  For 
instance,  I  have  a  post  caid  from  him,  dated  23d  inst.,  on 
which  he  says:  'Dr.  Torkaner  came  yesterday.  I  like  him.' " 
Then  Dr.  Bucke  says:  "A  name  is  something  \\q  never  went 
wrong  in."  This  singular  name  thus  quoted  was  meant  for 
mine. 

At  almost  every  visit  I  would  urge  the  beneficial  effects  of 
fresh  air,  of  sunshine,  and  of  a  little  exercise,  but  all  to  little 
avail.  His  experience  of  outdoor  exercise  was  quite  bad.  As 
he  says  in  his  letter,  it  flustered  him — "  blinded  and  deafened  " 
him.  He  was  loth  to  repeat  it.  A  very  few  outings  were 
all  he  took  during  the  entire  spring,  summer  and  autumn. 
He  preferred  his  bed-room — his  den,  he  called  it — to  the  rest  of 
the  house,  and  here  I  nearly  always  found  him.  Never  id'e,  he 
sat  surrounded  by  a  vast  heap  of  books,  papers,  manuscripts  and 
what  not,  in  apparently  hopeless  confusion,  always  busied  in 
something,  always  interested  in  anything  I  chanced  to  say  of 
men  or  women,  medical  men  and  matters  medical  always  seem- 
ing to  interest  him  especially.  The  severest  thing  I  could  make 
him  say  of  any  one  was  that  many  of  the  women  visitors  at  sum- 
mer resorts  cared  more  for  the  exhibition  of  their  jewelry  and 
dress,  the  men,  more  for  whiskey,  than  for  the  wonderful  beau- 
ties and  grandeurs  of  nature  to  be  seen  at  so  many  of  these 
places.     All  of  which  he  deplored.     He  had  more  faith  in  the 


f 


!)• 


r 


39« 


IN  RE   WALT   WHITMAN. 


generality — the  common  average  man  and  woman — than  in  the 
majority  of  these  erring  seekers  after  pleasure. 

Several  times  we  discussed  woman.  In  his  opinion  she  was 
man's  superior  in  every  way ;  she  bore  pain  and  suffering  with 
more  fortitude.  On  one  occasion  he  told  me  he  thought  it  a 
grand  thing  to  grow  old  gracefully.  He  used  to  tell  me  that  my 
visits  did  him  good,  and  would  say  to  others  that  my  visits  did 
him  as  much  good  as  my  medicine. 

While  he  did  not  regain  sufficient  strength,  during  this  time, 
to  leave  his  room  often,  he  lost  none  of  his  interest  in  men  and 
the  affairs  of  the  day,  not  only  all  through  the  long  months  of 
this  confinement,  rendered  doubly  tedious  by  the  pliysical  bur- 
dens he  bore,  but  all  through  the  dark  days  that  followed  the  in- 
vasion of  the  fatal  sickness  which  appeared  on  the  seventeenth 
of  December  J  and  this  in  spite  of  the  mental  failure  spoken  of 
by  Dr.  Bucke. 

In  the  early  afternoon  of  the  date  just  named  he  was  seized 
with  a  severe  chill.  He  termed  it  an  incipient  rigor.  The  sec- 
ond annual  visitation  of  grippe  wa?  prevailing  extensively  at  this 
time.  Returning  home  about  midnight,  after  an  exhausting  day 
of  professional  work,  I  had  the  first  intimation  of  the  change  in 
my  Camden  patient.  The  note  left  by  my  friend  Traubel,  who 
had  waited  in  my  home  until  patience  gave  out,  was  urgent. 
And  yet,  because  of  my  numerous  involvements,  I  was  able  to 
respond  only  late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  following  day — more 
than  twenty-four  hours  after  the  chill.  A  cursory  examination 
sufficed  to  reveal  the  gravity  of  his  case.  The  chill  had  been 
attended  and  followed  by  a  rise  of  temperature — the  thermome- 
ter showing  102°  F.  ;  his  pulse  was  100;  respirations,  30.  A 
very  troublesome  cough,  slight  hoarseness,  and,  already,  pretty 
free  muco-purulent  expectoration  was  established.  There  was 
complete  loss  of  appetite  and  marked  prostration,  so  that  he  vol- 
untarily remained  in  bed.  He  did  not  admit  having  headache 
or  any  special  pain,  complaining  in  fact  of  nothing.  He  thought 
his  friends  had  been  unduly  anxious  about  him,  and  he  apol- 
ogized to  me  because  they  had  brought  me  over  to  Camden, 
needlessly,  and  so  late  in  the  day  :  he  could  have  waited  until  the 


-than  in  the 

lion  she  was 

ufiering  with 

thought  it  a 

me  that  my 

my  visits  did 

ng  this  time, 
in  men  and 
g  months  of 
physical  bur- 
owed  the  in- 
•  seventeenth 
re  spoken  of 

le  was  seized 
r.  The  sec- 
sively  at  this 
hausting  day 
he  change  in 
Ffaubel,  who 

was  urgent. 

was  able  to 
g  day — more 

examination 
hill  had  been 
le  thermome- 
ions,  30.  A 
ready,  pretty 
Tliere  was 
D  that  he  vot- 
ing headache 

He  thought 
md  he  apol- 

to  Camden, 
ited  until  the 


LAST  SICKNESS  AND  DEATH  OF   WALT  WHITMAN.    399, 

time  of  my  usual  visit  on  ^he  next  day.  Not  intended  as  reproof 
for  deferred  duty  it  was  yet  a  keen  rebuke,  and  gladly  would  I 
have  made  amends  for  this  temporary  neglect.  ?  ' 

On  the  following  day,  the  third  of  his  illness,  there  was  no 
improvement.  The  areas  of  dullness,  especially  over  the  right 
lung,  found  on  the  preceding  day,  had  increased.  AH  the  phys- 
ical as  well  as  rational  signs  indicated  a  widely  diffused  broncho- 
pneumonia. Air  entered  the  lungs  very  imperfectly.  Cough 
was  very  troublesome,  and  expectoration  quite  free.  Witii  his 
bad  general  condition,  the  marked  prostration  and  the  hints  of 
heart  failure  that  I  had  heard,  there  seemed  to  me  no  chance  of 
ultimate  recovery  or  even  of  a  temporary  rally.  There  was  a- 
complex  of  symptoms  which  in  all  my  previous  experience  in 
men  of  his  age  had  been  of  fatal,  even  rapidly  fatal,  significance. 
On  the  next  day,  Sunday,  I  saw  him  twice,  the  second  time  late 
in  the  afternoon,  and  in  consultation  with  Dr.  Alexander  McAl- 
ister,  of  Camden,  whose  residence  in  the  immediate  neighbor- 
hood would  assure  his  presence  should  a  physician  be  suddenly 
needed  through  any  serious  change  in  the  patient's  condition. 
At  neither  visit  was  much  change  in  his  general  condition  noted 
from  the  previous  day,  although  his  strength  seemed  slowly  ebb- 
ing. He  could  take  no  nourishment  and  was  disinclined  to  use 
the  stimulants  tiiat  seemed  to  us  appropriate  and  necessary.  For 
the  first  time  in  my  knowledge  he  made  objections  to  taking  his 
medicine ;  but  he  took  it  nevertheless.  The  lungs  were  dis- 
tinctly worse ;  very  little  air  was  entering  the  left  and  less  still- 
the  right.  The  respiratory  movements  were  very  limited  indeed, 
and  tracheal  rales,  known  usually  as  the  death-rattle,  were  heard 
with  each  of  the  movements.  There  was  some  cyanosis,  the  end 
of  the  nose  being  slightly,  and  the  finger-tips  markedly,  blue. 
Clearly,  there  was  not  enough  lung  tissue  left  functionally  active 
to  oxygenate  the  blood  satisfactorily.  The  heart's  action  was 
regular  and  not  intermittent,  and  the  pulse  continued  at  one 
hundred,  with  the  respirations  as  on  the  first  day,  thirty.  There 
was  less  fever.  He  fully  realized  his  critical  condition,  but  gave 
not  the  slightest  evidence  of  anxiety  or  fear  of  its  probable  out- 
come.    He  was,  indeed,  cheerful  and  complained  of  nothing^. 


ii  iM> 


400 


IN  HE    WALT   W'lflTAfAy. 


admitting  that  he  had  pain  or  suflored  in  any  way  only  when  he 
was  especially  asked.  I  may  say  here,  thio  state  of  mind  (thi^ 
lack  of  anxiety  for  the  future,  this  absence  of  complaint,  this 
cheerful  attitude)  was  maintained  to  the  last  hour  of  his  life. 

The  first  part  of  this,  Sunday,  night,  was  passed  with  sicep  at 
short  intervals,  but  at  one  a.  m.,  December  21st,  his  attendants 
thought  the  end  was  near.  He  took  a  milk  punch  and  rallied 
from  this  very  low  condition.  When  I  saw  him  later  in  the  day, 
he  was  somnolent ;  skin  relaxed  and  leaky  ;  the  Airgr  rales  per- 
sisting. He  wisiied  to  be  left  alone,  would  not  talk — indeed,  re- 
fused to  see  his  near  friends.  Very  remarkably,  however,  on 
one  occasion,  when  Warren,  his  nurse,  had  left  him  a  few  min- 
ntes,  he  raised  himself  in  and  sat  up  on  the  side  of  the  bed. 
He  was  unable  to  get  back  unaided.  Dr.  R.  M.  Bucke  arrived 
late  in  the  day.  He  fully  shared  our  belief  that  the  end  could 
not  be  far  off. 

The  somnolency  and  the  cyanosis  continued  on  the  aad  ; 
also  some  irregularity  of  the  pulse  (the  first  noticed),  and  greater 
frequency.  He  preferred  still  to  be  left  alone,  saying,  "  My 
friends  seem  not  to  realize  how  weak  1  am,  and  what  an 
effort  it  is  for  me  to  talk."  More  favorable  w?s  his  taking  food 
— a  small  mutton  chop  in  the  morning,  and  several  milk  punches 
during  the  day.  His  attendants  reported  a  fair  night,  but  on 
the  23d  I  found  him  again  in  a  somnolent  state,  the  heart's 
action  very  irregular,  the  pulse  small  and  averaging  one  hundred 
and  ten  beats  to  the  minute.  The  "ight  lung  seemed  less  solid 
and  more  pervious  to  air.  Several  raw  oysters  were  piten  during 
the  day,  and  this  was  all.  He  could  not  take  milk  punch  or 
stimulants. 

December  24th,  Dr.  McAlister  saw  the  patient  with  me  !\.  five 
P.M.  It  was  evident  that  the  slight  ir  provement  of  the  preced- 
ing day  had  not  continued.  More  careful  examination  disclosed 
quite  extensive  involvement  of  the  left  lung,  with  the  right  prac- 
tically useless.  C-'^nerally  he  seemed  much  weaker.  At  ten  p.  m. 
my  colleague  was  hastdy  summoned.  He  found  the  patient  gen- 
erally cyanosed,  with  labored  respiration ;  a  weak,  rapid  and 
irregular  pulse ;  the  surface  of  the  body  covered  with  a  cold, 


LAST  SICKNESS  AND  DEATH  OF   WALT   WHITMAN. 


401 


\\y  when  he 
mind  (thij 
nplaint,  this 
his  life, 
with  sicep  at 
s  attendants 
\  and  rallied 
r  in  the  day, 
■gi'  rales  per- 
— indeed,  re- 
however,  on 
n  a  few  -nin- 
;  of  the  bed. 
Iiicke  arrived 
he  end  could 

)n  the  22d ; 
I,  and  greater 
aying,  "  My 
ind  what  an 
5  taking  food 
milk  punches 
night,  but  on 
,  the  heart's 
one  hundred 
led  less  solid 
eiten  during 
lilk  punch  or 

ith  me  i\.  five 
f  the  preced- 
;ion  disclosed 
le  right  prac- 
At  ten  p.  M. 
I  patient  gen- 
c,  rapid  and 
with  a  cold, 


clammy  sweat.  He  was  exhausted.  It  was  believed  by  all  present 
that  he  could  not  live  through  the  night — so  complete  was  the 
collapse.  On  the  asth  I  saw  him  twice.  Not  only  had  he  ral- 
lied from  the  collapse  by  morning,  but  there  seemed  a  slight 
amelioration  of  the  bad  condition  of  the  previous  day.  All 
wore  ipiite  hopeful.  The  promising  condition  continued  only  a 
short  time.  On  the  a6th  he  was  as  bad  as  ever.  He  lay  all 
day  long  in  what  appeared  to  be  a  semi-conscious  state,  but  very 
curiously  rcjjlicd  promptly  to  any  question  put  to  him.  His 
hearing,  not  good  of  late,  was  now  especially  acute.  Lowering 
my  voice  purposely  to  test  this,  I  uniformly  observed  that  he 
heard  me.  My  colleagues  agreed  with  me  that  this  was  so. 
"No  pain,"  said  he,  "but  so  very  miserable!"  His  heart 
seemed  failing — irregular  and  intermittent — the  pulse,  however, 
still  averaging  one  hundred.  All  nourishment  was  refused.  Dr. 
Bucke,  watching  at  the  bedside  late  in  the  evening,  declared  the 
end  near  at  hand,  and  that  he  would  remain  now  imtil  all  was 
over.  None  of  us  had  the  faintest  idea  that  the  end  was  yet  three 
months  off.  But  low  as  was  the  ebb,  life  continued.  At  the  con- 
sultation on  the  27th,  Drs.  McAlister  and  Bucke  present  with  me, 
a  very  careful  examination  of  the  chest  was  made.  The  patient 
was  supported  for  a  short  time  in  the  sitting  posture,  in  order 
that  the  bases  and  posterior  surface  of  the  lungs  could  be  exam- 
ined. Improvement  was  indicated  by  the  presence  of  some  reso- 
nance on  percussion  and  by  the  existence  of  some  breath  sounds 
— though  these  were  feeble.  The  left  side  was  more  impaired 
than  we  had  believed.  The  respiratory  movements  were  still 
entirely  abdominal,  thirty-three  to  the  minute.  Expectoration 
of  muco-purulent  matter  continued.  There  was  little  if  any 
fever,  but  loss  of  flesh  was  evident.  That  we  were  not  mistaken 
in  our  conclusion  that  there  was  some  improvement  the  next 
few  days  abundantly  proved.  By  January  7th  there  had  been 
re-established  a  normal  pulse  respiration  ratio,  the  former  sever.ty- 
two  and  the  latter  eighteen.  I  had  in  my  attendance  during  the 
previous  year  found  the  pulse  very  uniformly  at  sixty-four.  This 
was,  therefore,  but  little  above  the  normal  for  him.  At  this 
time  there  was  complete  abatement  of  all  the  alarming  symptoms* 
a6 


^>r  . 


4oa 


I.y  RK   WALT   WUITMAS. 


The  tracheal  rale — or  death-rattle — had  bi-cn  survived  ;  one  at- 


V    ', 


i  ! 


tack  of  I 


)lctt 


ith 


L'gular  and  intei 


complete  collapse,  with  cyanosis  anil 
mittent  heart  action,  that  all  thought  the  sure  precursor  of  death, 
was  not  such.  Altogether,  this  was  one  of  the  most  rcnuirkable 
experiences  of  my  entire  professional  life.  While  all  alarming 
conditions  and  signs  were  now  gone,  there  was  never  any  estab- 
lishment of  real  convalescence,  iladly  as  he  must  have  felt,  he 
had  already  settled  down  to  a  routine  of  daily  life  little  varied 
from  this  on  to  the  very  last. 

The  curious  mental  condition  of  which  I  have  spoken,  and 
which  I  at  first  supposed  to  be  a  sort  of  stupor  or  semi-conscious- 
ness, was  not  such  at  all,  as  I  found  upon  a  more  careful  investi- 
gation. Had  it  been  coma,  or  partial  coma,  hearing,  with  the 
other  sjjccial  senses,  would  have  been  dull  ;  but  his  hearing  at 
this  time  was,  for  him,  remarkably  acute — was  even  abnor- 
mally so.  lie  was  often  supjmsed  to  be  sleeping  when  he  was 
without  doubt  perfectly  aware  of  all  that  was  going  on  about 
him.  All  that  was  necessary  to  secure  his  attention  was  a  word 
uttered  in  the  lowest  tones  or  a  touch  on  the  hand  or  arm. 
Once,  when  I  supposed  him  asleep,  and  placed  my  finger  on  his 
wrist  in  the  lightest  manner  possible,  he  looked  up  and  greeted 
me.  He  preferreil  to  be  left  entirely  alone.  Often  the  presence 
of  his  best  friends  seemed  to  worry  him.  When  he  was  at  his 
lowest,  and  when  his  end  was  hourly  looked  for,  we  were  re- 
quested to  induce  him,  if  possible,  to  see  one  of  them  for  a  few 
moments  on  a  matter  of  some  importance  to  himself.  "  No,  no, 
I  cannot  I  Tell  them  to  wait  until  I  am  better."  And  he  con- 
tinued: "My  friends  seem  not  to  realize  how  it  tires  me  to 
talk."  But  we  said:  "You  may  never  be  better."  All  the 
same  his  decision  was  made,  and  he  would  not  abate  from  it. 

He  preferred  '  attendants  in  the  room  adjoininj,^  his  own, 
and  had  a  bell-uull  fixed  within  easy  reach  of  his  hand  as  he  was 
lying  down.     When  he  desired  help,  he  rang. 

He  must  have  sufTered  greatly,  but  he  made  little  complaint. 
All  the  pain  and  soreness  was  referred  to  the  left  side,  the  splenic 
region,  the  sigmoid  flexure  of  the  colon  ;  and  near  the  end  of 
life  there  was  some  pain  in  the  left  foot.     The  cause  of  the  pain 


lAST  SlCK'iVHSS  AND  DEATll  OF   WALT   WIIITMAS.    405 


ivcd ;  one  at- 
hir  and  intcr- 
rsor  of  death, 
St  remarkable 
:  all  alarming 
krer  any  estab- 
:  have  felt,  he 
L"  little  varied 

e  spoken,  and 
;mi-conscious- 
:arcful  investi- 
ring,  with  the 
his  hearing  at 
eveii    abnor- 
;  when  he  was 
jing  on  about 
on  was  a  word 
liand  or  arm. 
f  finger  on  his 
ip  and  greeted 
n  the  presence 
1  he  was  at  his 
r,  we  were  re- 
them  for  a  few 
If.     "  No,  no, 
And  he  con- 
it  tires  me  to 
ter,"     All  the 
ite  from  it. 
ininj^  his  own, 
hand  as  he  was 

ttle  complaint, 
ide,  the  splenic 
lear  the  end  of 
ise  of  the  pain 


was  not  clear  imtil  the  post-mortem.  Hiccough  was  a  very 
I)ersistcnt  symptoni  fron>  before  Christmas  up  to  within  a  short 
time  of  the  end.  At  first  it  lasted  hours  without  intermission, 
and  'jnally  troubled  less  contiiuiously.  Much  cough  antl  muco- 
purulent expec  toration  siiowcd  tluit  the  pneumonia  had  under* 
gone  partial  resolution  only.  .Souie  of  the  consolidatetl  areas 
were  undergoing  softening.  Only  very  late  were  occasional 
niglit  sweats  noticed,  and  the  fever,  if  |)resent  at  all,  was  very 
moderate.  There  was  a  < onlinual  loss  of  flesh  in  spite  of  a  fair 
amount  of  nourishment  taken  daily. 

As  a  rule,  he  would  awake  about  nine  A.  M.  after  a  restless  night. 
Hourly  or  ofiener  he  would  ring  or  call  the  nurse  to  change  his 
position.  Soon  it  was  possible  for  him  to  lie  on  the  left  side 
only,  and  finally  this  tortured  him.  Said  he;  "  I  have  to  choose 
between  two  evils :  lying  on  the  left  side  tortures  me,  on  the 
right  the  phlegm  chokes  me."  However,  after  each  change  of 
posture  he  was  su|)posed  to  fall  promptly  asleep.  Between  nine 
and  ten  in  the  morning  he  would  have  his  breakfast — a  simjjle 
meal  of  Graham  toast,  coffee  and  usually  either  an  egg  or  a  small, 
piece  of  steak.  Then  between  four  and  five  in  the  afternoon  a 
second  meal,  consisting  usually  of  bread  and  butter,  mutton 
broth  and  rice,  and  occasionally  including  some  raw  oysters. 
Milk,  either  j)lain  or  as  milk  punch,  was  taken  very  moderately, 
and  the  same  was  true  of  stimulants  in  general.  Every  few  days 
three  or  four  ounces  of  champagne  were  taken.  This  with  the 
view  of  securing  its  effect  on  the  alimentary  canal.  It  acted' 
pretty  uniformly  as  a  laxative,  and  only  a  few  times  was  it  nec- 
essary to  resort  to  enemata.  There  were  only  three  or  four  days 
during  which  no  food  was  taken,  and  then  he  said  he  did  not 
want  to  be  bothered  with  it.  Whenever  he  felt  unusually  rest- 
less at  night,  he  would  attribute  it  to  having  eaten  too  much. 
In  the  vain  search  for  a  remedy  to  control  the  hiccough,  ice- 
cream, suggested  by  some  o:u',  was  tried.  Its  effect  was  indif- 
ferent, and  several  times  harmful,  in  that  a  diarrhea  followed  its 
use.  The  digestive  function  was,  as  a  rule,  fairly  well  per- 
formed. The  moderate  quantities  of  food  taken  were  digested. 
.The  tongue  remained  moist  and  clean  throughout.     The  excre- 


■  i.' 


'.    • 


404 


IN  RE   WALT   WHITMAN. 


tion  of  urine  was  much  below  normal.     It  varied  from  eight  to 
twelve  ounces  in  the  twenty-four  hours. 

Afiet  his  morning  meal  Whitman  would  have  the  curtain  oppo- 
site his  bed  raised.  He  would  then  obtain  the  daily  papers  and 
his  mail  and  these  would  engage  him  for  hours.  There  were 
very  few  days  when  they  were  neglected.  When  they  were,  all 
hope  would  sink  in  the  breasts  of  his  attendants,  to  be  as  quickly 
revived  by  their  resimijjtion.  Occasionally,  some  writing  was 
done.  On  January  loth  he  signed  two  of  the  Johnston  etchings 
.for  his  attending  physicians. 

To  the  very  last  day  of  life  thin  interest  in  the  news  and  affairs 
•of  the  day  was  maintained.  Little  as  he  said,  even  in  the  way  of 
.necessary  communications,  he  would  occasionally  surprise  us  by 
•referring  briefly  to  a  bit  of  news.  "  Dr.  Parker's  dead,"  said  he 
to  me  on  the  day  following  the  death  of  Dr.  Andrew  J.  Parker. 

He  did  not,  as  is  usual  with  consumptives,  entertain  any  hopes 
.of  recovery.  Some  days  he  would  say  he  felt  much  better,  but 
.  -snly  once  during  this  long  period  did  he  apparently  allow  him- 
self to  be  deluded  by  the  hope  that  he  would  get  well.  About 
the  middle  of  February,  one  morning  after  breakfast,  some  one 
said  to  him  :  "  We  hope  soon  to  see  you  in  your  chair  again." 
His  prompt  negative — "Never!  never!" — showed  conclusively 
that  he  had  no  such  hope.  At  another  time  the  nurse  told  him 
they  were  thinking  of  getting  a  neV  bed  for  him.  "You  slip 
away  from  us  so  in  this  one."  He  rejoined:  "Some  of  these 
fine  mornings  I  shall  be  slipping  away  from  you  forever." 
"  Well,  doctors,  what  is  the  verdict  ?  "  was  a  question  asked  us 
more  than  once.  In  explanation  of  the  reason  for  the  question 
he  said  he  thought  "  it  would  be  a  satisfaction  to  know  how  the 
cat  was  going  to  jump."  Tlien,  too,  he  was  of  the  opinion  that 
"  what  the  doctors  can't  tell  you  about  yourself  no  one  else  can." 
The  exception  referred  to,  when  he  apparently  allowed  himself  to 
be  misled  by  a  false  hope,  was  when  he  declared  to  Warren  one 
morning  that  "  he  was  going  to  beat  those  doctors  yet."  Once 
he  gave  us  the  account  of  the  famous  two-hour  talk  on  Boston 
Common  with  Emerson,  who,  he  said  quaintly,  "  talked  the  finest 
talk  that  ever  was  talked."     At  the  conclusion  of  the  narration 


LAST  SICKNJiSS  AND  DEATH  OF   WALT  WHITMAN. 


405 


from  eight  to 

curtain  oppo- 
y  papers  and 
There  were 
hey  were,  all 
be  as  quickly 
;  writing  was 
iston  etchings 

rws  and  affairs 
in  the  way  of 
lurprise  us  by 
load,"  said  he 
2\v  J.  Parker. 
tain  any  hopes 
ch  better,  but 
ly  allow  hini- 
well.     About 
fast,  some  one 
•  chair  again." 
d  conclusively 
uirse  told  him 
1.     "You  slip 
Some  of  these 
you    forever." 
ition  asked  us 
r  the  question 
know  how  the 
le  opinion  that 
one  else  can." 
wed  himself  to 
:o  Warren  one 

yet."  Once 
alk  on  Boston 
alked  the  finest 

the  narration 


he  promptly  extended  his  hand,  and,  as  Dr.   McAlister   said, 
"dismissed  us  with  his  blessing." 

We  were  much  in  the  dark  as  to  the  extent  and  real  nature  of 
his  trouble.  The  large  pleural  effusion,  which,  must  have  existed 
for  weeks,  entirely  escaped  our  recognition.  Repeatedly  the 
question  of  cancerous  disease  came  up,  but  it  was  always  decided 
against.  He  continued  to  lose  flesh  and  strength  so  gradually 
that  one  almost  failed  to  observe  the  decline. 

March  nth  he  was  again  reading  the  daily  papers.  For  several 
days  they  had  been  neglected.  His  attendants  were  greatly 
cheered. 

I  have  already  spoken  of  the  necessity  for  frequent  changes  of 
posture.  In  the  twenty-four  hours  from  the  21st  to  the  22d  of 
March  he  was  turned  just  forty-one  times.  On  the  a3d  his 
hearing  was  dull.  It  had  all  along  been  quite  acute.  Respira- 
tions were  now  relatively  too  frequent — twenty-three  to  tlie  min- 
ute. The  pulse  was  eighty-four.  The  tracheal  rale — "death- 
rattle  " — was  again  heard,  but  it  disappeared  as  soon  as  he  turned 
to  his  left  side  from  the  position  on  the  back.  March  26th, 
although  we  realized  that  our  patient  was  extremely  weak,  we; 
were  hardly  prepared  for  the  end,  then  near  at  hand. 

At  12.30  p.  M.  there  was  a  little  dyspncea — he  felt  short  of 
breath.  The  respirations  had  gone  up  to  thirty  a  minute.  His 
pulse  was  small  and  irregular — eighty-four  to  ninety-two.  Some 
tracheal  rales  were  noticed. 

This  was  his  last  day,  and  ere  the  darkness  of  night  had  gath- 
ered his  emaciated  body  was  without  life. 

Mr.  Traubel  sends  me  this  brief  statement  of  the  last  hour : 

"  Tlie  end  came  so  suddenly  this  day's  evening  between  six  and; 
seven,  even  after  all  our  anticipation,  that  we  had  no  time  to 
summon  you.  Harned,  McAlister,  Fritzinger,  and  Mrs.  Davis 
were  present  already  when  I  arrived.  There  was  no  sign  of 
struggle  on  the  part  of  the  patient.  The  light  flickered,  lowered,, 
was  quenched.  He  seemed  to  suffer  no  pain.  His  heart  was 
strong  to  the  last,  and  even  may  be  said  to  have  outbeat  his  life, 
since  for  some  minutes  after  the  breath  was  gone,  the  faint 
throb  at  his  breast,  though  lessening,  continued.     He  needed  nO' 


4o6 


Ilf^  BE  WALT  WHITMAN. 


I 


help — indeed,  help  was  past  avail.  A  few  minor  attentions  which 
^e  fairly  reasoned  might  give  him  comfort  were  shown.  Else- 
wise  we  sat  or  stood  and  watched.  He  said  nothing.  He  lay 
•on  his  back — the  one  hand  which  he  had  reached  out  to  me  when 
I  came,  and  which  I  held,  on  the  coverlet.  He  passed  away  as 
peacefully  as  the  sun,  and  it  was  hard  to  catch  the  moment  of 
transition.  That  solemn  watch,  the  gathering  shadow,  the  pain- 
less stirrender,  are  not  to  be  forgotten.  His  soul  went  out  with 
the  day.  The  face  was  calm,  the  body  lay  without  rigidity,  the 
majesty  of  his  tranquil  spirit  remained.  What  more  could  be  said  ? 
It  was  a  moment  not  for  the  doctor,  but  for  the  poet,  the  seer." 

The  wonder,  that  life  had  continued  so  long,  grew  as  one  by 
one  the  revelations  of  the  post-mortem  examination  were  made. 

To  this  examination  he  had  assented  months  before  iiis  death. 
*'  Yes,"  he  said,  "  if  it  will  be  of  interest  to  the  doctors  and  of 
any  benefit  to  medical  science,  I  am  willing." 

The  following  are  the  notes  of  the  post-mortem  performed  on 
the  body  of  Walt  Whitman,  March  27,  1892,  by  Henry  W. 
Cattell,  demonstrator  of  gross  morbid  anatomy.  University  of 
Pennsylvania : 

The  autopsy  was  made  in  the  presence  of  Dr.  Daniel  Longaker, 
Prof  F.  X.  Dercum,  Dr.  Alexander  McAlister  and  Horace  L. 
Traubel.  The  brain  was  removed  by  Dr.  Dercum,  and  is 
now,  after  having  been  hardened,  in  the  possession  of  the  Ameri- 
can Anthropometric  Society.  This  Society,  which  has  been  or- 
ganized for  the  express  purpose  of  studying  high-type  brains, 
intends  to  first  photograph  the  external  surfaces  and  then  maKe 
a  cast  of  the  entire  brain.  After  this,  careful  microscopic  obser- 
vations will  be  made  by  competent  observers. 

Both  the  head  and  the  brain  were  remarkably  well  formed 
and  symmetrical.  The  scalp  was  thin,  and  practically  no  blood 
was  lost  when  the  incisions  were  made.  The  calvarium  was 
white  and  the  muscular  tissue  pale.  The  dura  mater  was  very  ad- 
herent to  the  skull  cap  and  showed  recent  pachymeningitis  on 
both  sides,  but  especially  on  the  right.  The  blood  in  the  longi- 
tudinal sinus  was  fluid.    The  bone  was  well  ossified,  and  there  was 


ntions  which 
own.     Else- 
ng.     He  lay 
t  to  me  when 
issed  away  as 
E  moment  of 
ow,  the  pain- 
ent  out  with 
rigidity,  the 
ould  be  said  ? 
;t,  the  seer." 
e\v  as  one  by 
were  made. 
)re  his  death. 
>ctors  and  of 


performed  on 
Henry  W. 
University  of 


iel  Longaker, 
d  Horace  L. 
rcum,  and  is 
1  of  the  Ameri- 
1  has  been  or- 
h-type  brains, 
nd  then  maKe 
roscopic  obser- 

y  well  formed 
ically  no  blood 
calvarium  was 
ter  was  very  ad- 
ymeningitis  on 
)d  in  the  longi- 
I,  and  there  was 


LAST  SICKNESS  AND  DEATH  OF  WALT  WHITMAN.    407 

little  or  no  diploic  substance  remaining.  The  pia  and  arachnoid 
were  very  oedematous,  and  considerable  cerebro-spiral  fluid  escaped 
during  the  removal  of  the  brain.  Numerous  milky  patches, 
especially  over  the  vertex,  were  seen,  but  no  miliary  tubercles  were 
discernible.  The  membranes  were  not  adherent  to  the  cortex, 
and  the  brain  substance  was  excessively  soft.  The  blood  vessels 
of  the  circle  of  Willis  were  very  slightly  atheromatous.  The 
brain  weighed  forty-five  ounces,  two  hundred  and  ninety-two  and 
one-half  grains  avoirdupois.  While  this  is  a  medium  weight  for 
a  brain,  it  must  be  remembered  that  the  brain  decreases  in 
weight  one  ounce  for  every  ten  years  in  a  person  over  fifty,  and 
that  it  is  much  more  important  for  intellectual  and  physical  well 
being  that  the  convolutions  are  well  formed,  the  sulci  deep  and 
the  cortical  substance  wide.  Large  allowance  must  also  be  made 
for  the  extreme  emaciation  of  the  whole  body,  involving  of  course 
the  brain.  It  is  likely  the  brain  had  shrunk  (from  this  cause)  six 
to  eight  ounces  in  tlie  last  months  of  life.  Taking  these  elements 
of  the  problem  into  account,  it  seems  likely  that  at  mental 
maturity  Walt  Whitman's  brain  weighed  at  least  fifty-six  ounces. 

The  body  was  emaciated,  post-mortem  lividity  was  slight,  and 
there  was  no  rigidity.  On  attempting  to  remove  the  skin  of  the 
left  side  a  little  to  the  left  of  the  median  line  at  the  sixth  rib  laud- 
able pus  escaped.  On  careful  examination  there  was  found  here 
an  elevated  area  the  size  of  a  fifty-cent  piece,  which  was  situated 
over  but  slightly  to  the  left  of  the  c-nter  of  the  manubrium  and 
had  eroded  that  bone  to  the  extent  of  a  twenty-five-cent  piece. 
The  abscess  had  burrowed  into  the  pectoralis  major  and  had  com- 
menced to  erode  the  superficial  fascia.  It  had  not  broken  in- 
wardly, though  it  could  be  plainly  seen  from  the  posterior  surface 
of  the  sternum. 

About  half  an  ounce  of  pericardial  fluid  was  found.  The 
heart,  which  weighed  about  nine  ounces,  was  very  flabby  and  well 
covered  with  epicardial  fat,  except  a  small  portion  in  the  center 
of  the  right  ventricle.  The  pulmonary  valves  were  slightly  thick- 
ened but  competent.  Aortic  valves  in  good  condition,  closing 
completely.  The  mitral  valves  good,  the  tricuspids  perfectly 
good. 


3t&$ 


JN  RE   WALT  WHITMAN. 


{,' 


, 


There  were  three  and  one-half  quarts  uf  serous  fluid  in  the  left 
pleural  cavity,  and  the  lung,  the  size  of  the  hand,  was  com- 
pletely pressed  against  the  mediastinum,  so  that  it  was  absolutely 
impossible  for  air  to  enter.  A  few  bands  of  recent  Lymph  ex- 
tended across  an  injected  pleura,  which  was  hemorrhagic  in  spots. 
On  the  pleural  surface  at  a  point  just  below  the  nipple  was  an 
abscess  the  size  of  a  hen's  egg,  which  had  completely  eroded  the 
fifth  rib,  the  longest  diameter  of  the  abscess  being  in  the  vertical 
direction.  There  was  no  external  mark  on  the  skin  to  lead  one 
to  suspect  the  presence  of  the  abscess,  though  there  was  some 
bulging  and  distinct  fluctuation,  and  the  two  ends  of  the  rib  could 
be  plainly  felt  grating  against  each  other.  Only  about  one-eighth 
of  the  right  lung  was  suitable  for  breathing  purposes.  The  upper 
and  middle  lobes  were  consolidated  and  firmly  bound  down  to 
the  pleura.  There  were  about  four  ounces  of  fluid  in  the  cavity. 
Large  tubercular  nodules  and  areas  of  catarrhal  pneumonia  were 
everywhere  to  be  found.  Those  portions  of  the  lung  not  tuber- 
cular were  markedly  emphysematous,  this  being  especially  marked 
at  the  free  edges  of  the  lung. 

The  spleen  was  soft  and  weighed  about  eight  ounces,  the  cap- 
sule thickened  and  fibrour ;  on  section  pulpy.  It  was  matted 
down  to  the  diaphragm  and  showed  old  peritonitis  and  peri- 
splenitis. Numerous  tubercles  occupied  this  region,  extending 
to  the  anterior  wall  of  the  stomach  and  to  all  of  the  neighboring 
viscera.     The  diaphragm  was  pushed  downward  by  the  fluid. 

The  kidneys  were  surrounded  by  a  mass  of  fat.  The  left  supra- 
renal capsule  wai  tubercular  and  contained  a  cyst  the  size  of  a 
pigeon's  egg.  In  this  was  found  a  darkish  fluid.  The  capsule 
strips  readily;  the  kidney  weighed  about  six  and  one-half  ounces, 
and  showed  some  parenchymatous  change.  The  kidney  sub- 
stance was  soft,  red,  and  swollen,  and  somewhat  granular.  The 
right  kidney  was  a  little  the  smaller  and  the  better  of  the  two. 

The  liver  was  about  normal  in  size,  though  fatty,  and  contained 
an  extra  fissure  near  the  center.     Some  tubercles  were  observed. 

A  huge  gall  stcne  almost  entirely  occupied  a  rather  small  gall 
bladder  to  which  it  was  firmly  adherent.  The  outer  surface  of  the 
stone  was  covered  with  a  whitish  deposit. 


LAST  SICKNESS  AND  DEATH  OF   WALT  WHITMAN, 


409 


'  The  pancreas  was  hemorrhagic.  The  common  iliacs  were  but 
very  slightly  atheromatous,  •  , 

Over  tlie  whole  of  the  mesentery,  especially  in  its  lower  por- 
tion, were  hundreds  of  minute  tubercles  varying  i:i  size  from  that 
of  a  finr  needle-point  to  the  head  of  a  good-sized  pin.  These 
whitish  points  were  surrounded  by  a  hemorrhagic  base.  The 
serous  surface  of  the  intestines  was  injected  and  dotted  with 
tubercles.  The  bladder  was  empty  and  the  walls  thickened.  The 
prostate  was  enlarged.  The  rectum  was  swollen  and  filled  with 
semifluid  feces.  A  few  hardened  masses  were  found  in  the  trans- 
verse colon.  The  stomach  was  small.  The  vermiform  appendix 
was  two  inches  long  and  patulous,  containing  two  small  hardened 
fecal  masses  of  an  irregular  outline.  The  sigmoid  flexure  was 
unusually  long. 

The  above  macroscopic  lesions  of  the  various  organs  were  con> 
firmed  by  microscopic  sections. 

It  would  seem  very  probable  that  the  extensive  adhesion  of  the 
dura  mater  to  the  calvarium  was  due  to  an  old  sun-stroke. 

The  cause  of  death  was  pleurisy  of  the  left  side,  consumption 
of  the  right  lung,  general  miliary  tuberculosis  and  parenchyma- 
tous nephritis.  There  was  also  found  a  fatty  liver,  gall-stone,  a 
cyst  in  the  adrenal,  tubercular  abscesses,  involving  the  bones,  and 
pachymeningitis. 

It  is,  indeed,  marvellous  that  respiration  could  have  been  car- 
ried on  for  so  long  a  time  with  the  limited  amount  of  useful  lung 
tissue  found  at  the  autopsy.  It  was  no  doubt  due  la.gely  to  that 
indomitable  will  pertaining  to  Walt  Whitman.  Another  would 
have  died  much  earlier  with  one-half  of  the  pathological  changes 
which  existed  in  his  body. 

To  medical  ears,  at  least,  it  may  seem  strange  that  physicians 
of  even  average  diagnostic  skill  should  overlook  a  large  pleural 
eff'usion  like  this.  There  were  two  reasons  for  it — the  first  was- 
the  lack  of  complaint  of  pain ;  the  second,  our  respect  for  his 
disinclination  to  be  disturbed.  It  seemed  a  rudeness,  almost,  to 
subject  him  to  a  searching  examination.  Practically,  this  failure 
of  discovery  made  little  difference,  since  it  is  doubtful  if  the  re- 


'« 


I   i 


A 


il'.  I 


410 


IN  RE   WALT  WHITMAN. 


-moval  of  the  fluid  would  have  added  much  to  his  comfort  or 
.succeeded  in  prolonging  life.  This  pleurisy  was  due  to  deposit 
in  the  membrane  of  tubercles,  the  same  as  were  found  about  the 
spleen  and  the  peritoneum  of  the  left  side  of  the  abdomen  in 
general.  Here  they  originated  peritonitis,  and  thus  accounted 
for  the  pain.  The  abscess  Toding  the  sternum  must  have  existed 
a  long  time.  It  also  was  tubercular,  and  in  all  probability  was 
the  original  point  of  development  of  the  disease  and  the  focus 
of  subsequent  infection.  It  is  a  fact  now  pretty  generally  known 
that  individuals  in  apparently  perfect  health  may  have  tubercu- 
lous mediastinal  glands,  and  such  this,  in  all  likelihood,  was 
•  originally.  How  long  it  and  the  other  abscess  eroding  one  of 
the  ribs  had  existed  is  a  matter  of  surmise,  not  of  certainty. 
It  miglit  have  been  several  years.  It  certainly  antedated  the 
•outbreak  of  pneumonia  in  December  by  months.  No  wonder, 
now,  that  he  felt  a  "deadly  lassitude  and  inertia  !  " 

I  wish  to  silence  forever  the  slanderous  accusations  that  de- 
bauchery and  excesses  of  various  kinds  caused  or  contributed  to 
liis  break-down.  There  was  found  no  trace  or  reason  to  suspect, 
•either  during  life  or  after  death,  either  alcoholism  or  syphilis. 
This  f  .^ement  is  in  justice  due  the  memory  of  one  whose  ideal 
•of  purity  was  high. 

But  he  had  a  ruddy  face;  and  he  despised  not  the  "despised 
persons" — therefore  he  must  be  one  of  them!  The  accusation  is 
as  old  at  lest  as  the  time  of  the  Man  of  Nazareth,  against  whom 
it  was  charged  that  he  mingled  with  publicans  and  sinners. 

About  his  (Whitman's)  indomitable  will  there  can  be  no  disa- 
greement. And  yet  I  do  not  share  the  opinion  that  it  was  exer- 
cised in  a  struggle  against  the  inevitable.  Perhaps,  if  he  willed 
at  all,  it  was  to  die  sooner.  But  bodily  pangs  and  tortures 
seemed  not  to  perturb  him  ;  he  lived  out  his  last  days  as  he  had 
lived  his  last  forty  years,  with  senses  alert  and  keen  and  emotions 
under  perfect  control.  His  mind  was  bent  on  higher  things 
than  those  passing  about  his  inert  and  out-worn  body.  Who, 
indeed,  shall  trace  for  us  the  mysterious  labyrinths  of  its  wan- 
derings, and  record  its  experiences  throughout  those  long  days 
And  weeks  and  months?    We  are  certain  they  had  not  the  com- 


comfort  or 
i  to  deposit 
d  about  the 
bdomen  in 

accounted 
lave  existed 
bability  was 
\d  the  focus 
rally  known 
ive  tubercu- 
lihood,  was 
iing  one  of 
jf  certainty, 
tedated  the 
No  wonder, 

ions  that  de- 
)ntributed  to 
n  to  suspect, 
or  syphilis. 
:  whose  ideal 

le  "  despised 
accusation  is 
igainst  whom 
sinners, 
n  be  no  disa- 
Lt  it  was  exer- 
,  if  he  willed 
and  tortures 
ays  as  he  had 
and  emotions 
higher  things 
body.  Who, 
[is  of  its  wan- 
ose  long  days 
not  the  com- 


lAST  SICKNESS  AND  DEATH  OF  WALT  WHITMAN.   411 

plexion  of  fear,  and  it  seems  likely  that  his  lifelong  faith  in  con- 
tinued existence  did  not  desert  him  (was  probably  confirmed)  in 
this  last  supreme  experience  and  agony.  This  much,  at  least,  is 
certain,  that  at  the  very  end,  as  all  through  his  life,  the  act  of 
dying  had  no  terrors  for  him  who  had  passed 


•  •  •  • 


"death  with  the  dying  and  biith  with  the  new-washed  babe." 


!i  ■ 


i  ^ 


w 


ll 


( 


Not  knowing  whether  it  will  reach  you,  I  will,  however,  write  a  line  vo  ac- 
knowledge the  receipt  of  your  beautiful  and  elevated  "  Love  &  Death," 
&  of  the  friendly  letter  from  you  of  October  7th  last.  I  have  read  &  re- 
read the  poem,  &  consider  it  of  the  loftiest,  strongf^st  &  tenderest. 

kVa/t  W/iitman  to  John  Addington  Symonds,  1872. 

I  THANK  you  from  my  heart  for  the  gifl  of  your  great  book — that  beautiful 
complete  book  of  your  poems  and  your  prose,  which  I  call  "  Whitman's 
Bible."  But  my  heart  has  not  the  power  to  make  my  brain  and  hands  tell 
you  how  much  I  thank  you.  None  of  your  eleves,  your  disciples,  will  be 
able  to  tell  the  world  what  they  have  gained  from  you,  what  ihey  owe  to  you, 
what  you  are  for  them.  .  .  .  We  are  both  growing  old,  and  nearly  half  a 
hemisphere  divides  us,  and  yet  nothing  can  divide  souls,  or  separate  that  which 
is  inseparable  in  the  divine  nature  of  the  world.  ...  I  cannot  find  words 
better  fitted  to  express  the  penetrative  force  with  which  you  have  entered  into 
me,  my  reliance  on  you.  .  ,  .  You  have  exercised  a  controlling  influence  over 
me  for  half  a  century.  .  .  .  More  and  more  of  you  will  be  found  in  me,  the 
longer  I  live  and  the  firmer  I  become  in  manhood. 


John  Addington  Symonds  to  Walt  Whitman,  1889. 


(412) 


^ 


' 


LAST  DAYS  OF  WALT  WHITMAN. 


By  7.    m    IVALLACB. 


The  following  pages  consist  almost  wholly  of  extracts  from 
daily  letters  written  by  Horace  L.  Traubel  to  friends  in  England 
and  to  Dr.  Bucke  in  Canada  during  Walt  Whitman's  last  illness. 
As  the  letters  were  written  off-hand — often  hastily  amid  pressure 
of  many  duties — to  a  limited  number  of  friends  to  whom  they 
had  special  reference,  it  cannot  be  claimed  for  them  that  they 
present  more  than  a  sectional  part  of  the  complete  story,  which 
has  yet  to  be  written.  But  they  will  yield  authentic  glimpses  of 
the  daily  course  of  the  long  tragedy,  and  of  the  deportment  and 
spirit  of  its  suffering  hero. 

Walt  Whitman  had  been  failing  in  health  and  strength  for 
some  months,  when,  on  the  17th  of  December,  1891,  he  was 
seized  with  a  chill  and  was  helped  to  bed.  Dr.  Longaker, 
of  Philadelphia,  saw  him  next  day  and  found  him  suffering 
from  congestion  of  the  right  lung.  He  became  rapidly  worse, 
and  on  the  21st  the  doctors  said  that  the  case  was  hopeless  and 
that  Whitman  would  not  survive  many  days.  Telegrams  and 
cable  messages  were  sent  to  his  friends,  and  a  series  of  letters 
succeeded  from  which  are  taken  the  extracts  that  follow. 


i 


Dec.  21. — The  danger  apprehended  by  Dr.  Longaker  for 
Walt  is  choking.  Mucus  is  dangerously  present  in  the  bron- 
chials.  He  is  too  weak  to  move  himself.  Warren  turns  him 
every  ten  minutes,  in  order  to  guard  against  any  local  accu- 
mulation of  mucus.  The  right  lung  is  congested — hard — and 
he  breathes  only  with  the  other.  The  heart  is  unaffected  so  far. 
Appetite  entirely  gone  since  last  Thursday.  For  weeks  before 
it  had  been  rapidly  declining.     The  only  nourishment  he  takes 

(413) 


r 


414 


IN  Rt:   WALT   WHITMAN. 


II 


I 


i-f 


rt 


now  is  in  what  he  gains  from  milic  punch  and  his  medicine.  His 
weakness  is  extreme — extreme — but  his  cheerfulness  is  marvellous. 
Kee[)  brave,  unshaken  hearts  even  now,  dear  friends.  His  heart 
does  not  lose  one  drop  of  its  serenity. 

Dec.  33. — Walt  is  slowly  sleeping  away — only  dozes,  dozes — 
and  never  speaks  except  when  spoken  to.  Bucke  should  be  in 
Camden  now.     He  will  be  a  host,  for  he  is  both  doctor  and  friend. 

Dec.  23. — Walt  holding  his  own  for  the  immediate  moment. 
What  will  come  to-morrow  no  one  can  tell.  liucke  gives  us  no 
encouragement,  which  but  confirms  the  views  of  the  other  doc- 
tors. The  telegrams,  etc.,  etc.,  to  Walt  and  to  me,  are  vast  in 
number  and  various  in  character.  Ingersoll  wired  from  Toledo 
to-day  :  "After  the  day  the  night,  and  after  the  night  the  dawn  ; 
yours  with  words  of  love  and  hope  " — which  profoundl"  affected 
Walt.  Walt  serene  and  natural — for  the  first  time  conceding 
to-day  that  the  end  seems  near. 

Dec.  24. — (Cablegram.)     Remains  the  same, 

Dec.  2$. — (Cablegram.)     A  little  vrorse. 

Dec.  26. — (Cablegram.)     A  little  better. 

Dec.  27. — (Cablegram.)     A  little  worse. 

Dec.  28. — A  slight  improvement,  but  we  have  small  hopes  for 
Walt.  He  is  wrecked  beyond  recovery  and  he  craves  to  be 
relieved.  Bucke  may  go  home  to-night,  but  expects  Walt  not  to 
survive  his  departure  many  days. 

Dec.  29. — A  dead,  inarticulate  day,  unchanged  from  yester- 
day's condition.  As  he  requires  constant  attendance  night  and 
day  we  yesterday  introduced  a  trained  nurse — Mrs.  Keller — who 
will  share  with  Warren  the  burdens  and  duties  of  the  watch. 
Bucke  went  home  last  night.  Burroughs  was  here  for  two  or 
three  days,  but  had  to  go  home  Saturday.  Jeff's  daughter 
came  east,  and  George  Whitman  spent  one  anxious  night  at  328. 
Walt  clear,  calm  and  tender,  but  praying  for  death — to  be  re- 
leased.    This  is  his  daily  wish,  cherished  and  expressed. 

Dec.  30. — His  condition  is  unchanged.  A  respite  now  be- 
tween troubles.  He  has  not  for  more  than  twenty-four  hours 
said  a  word  except  by  way  of  giving  directions  to  those  who  attend 
him.     Hiccoughs  persistent  for  several  days. 


:ine.     His 
iiarvellous. 
His  heart 

es,  dozes — 
ould  be  in 
and  friend, 
moment. 
Jives  us  no 

other  doc- 
are  vast  in 
om  Toledo 

the  dawn ; 
:ll"  affected 

conceding 


11  hopes  for 
raves  to  be 
Walt  not  to 


rom  yester- 
e  night  and 
teller — who 
■  the  watch, 
for  two  or 
's  daughter 
igh'iat  328. 
1 — to  be  ra- 
sed. 

te  now  be- 
-four  hours 
:  who  attend 


LAST  DAYS  OF   WALT   WHITMAN. 


AlS- 


Jcn.  I,  1893. — Walt  is  conscious  and  calm,  and  no  day  passes 
without  some  sign  from  him  of  the  old  affections.  But  he 
expresses  little  voluntary  solicitude  otherwise  with  respect  to  sur- 
roundings or  worldly  interests.  He  will  inquire,  "What  is 
the  news  ?  "  and  tiien  will  lapse,  from  weakness,  unable  to  follow 
the  thread.  In  a  few  minutes  we  go  to  have  VV.  sign  a  codicil 
to  his  will,  the  particulars  of  which  he  outlined  to  us  this 
afternoon.  Johnston  (New  York)  over  and  hid  two  or  three 
minutes  with  Walt. 

Jan.  a. — Walt  spent  a  comparatively  easy  day,  but  this  even- 
ing has  t  n  restless  and  in  discomfort.  .'  have  just  had  quite  a 
talk  with  him.  He  wishes  to  die.  There  is  nothing  he  %omuch 
wishes  as  that.  The  bronchial  trouble  is  about  all  gone,  but  the 
weakness  that  remains  is  abject.  He  cannot  turn  iu  bed — cannot 
even  turn  his  head  over  on  the  pillow.  But  he  is  serene,  calm, 
clear,  unclouded  mentally.  Indeed,  he  mourns  that  this  is  so — 
that,  after  the  body  has  so  collapsed,  these  thoughts— -rowd- 
ing,  hurrying  thoughts — pursue  him.  We  executed  the  co.'icil 
without  event  yesterday.  The  scene  was  striking,  never  to  be 
forgotten. 

Ja;i.  4. — Nothing  new  to  report.  He  seems  to  lose  strength, 
but  gives  no  further  evidence  of  change.  The  dreadful  hic- 
''oughings  continue,  day  and  night.  I  was  in  his  room  an  hour 
ago,  and  he  seemed  weak  and  worn  past  survival. 

Jan.  5. — Still  no  change  in  Walt. 

Jan.  6. — Without  change.  Had  no  talk  with  him  for  two 
days — nor  had  the  others  except  as  they  waited  upon  him  and 
questioned  him — till  this  evening.  "  Dear,  dear  doctor,"  he 
said  on  delivery  of  your  message  [Dr.  B.].  Gives  me  every 
sign  of  great  love  and  tender  regard — more  than  I  ever  suspected 
or  hoped  for. 

Jan.  7. — No  sign  or  seeming  hope  of  a  rally.  W.  asked  yes- 
terday if  word  had  come  of  the  arrival  of  his  books  [two  Christ- 
mas gifts  sent  by  him]  in  Bolton.  A  few  minutes  later  John- 
ston's letter  received,  in  which  they  are  acknowledged.  Weather 
cold — snow  fallen  and  clear  skies.  Sleighing,  too.  Likes  tO" 
talk  of  out-of-doors. 


F' 


•    i 


•  ■•% 


4f« 


IN  RE   WALT  WHITMAN. 


i 


I 


Jan.  8 — (From  Wall's  room).  Some  trifling  rally.  We  send 
our  love.     Walt  is  glad  the  books  arrived  sa'cly. 

Jan.  9. — Walt  has  eaten  more  to-day  than  any  day  yet.  No 
signs  of  strength,  but  some  signs  of  comfort.  He  sends  his 
love  and  best  words.  Position  still  critical,  but  more  grounds 
for  hope. 

Jan.  ID. — Walt  no  worse — possibly  improved.  He  has  eaten 
more  and  shown  some  signs  of  really  holding  his  own.  Sat  up 
in  bed  and  affixed  his  signatures  to  two  etchings  for  the  doctors. 

Jan.  II. — Walt  very  weak  to-night — more  distinctly  so  than 
for  a  week.  I  attend  to  his  mail  now — giving  him  tlie  substance 
of  important  and  loving  letters,  and  having  perforce  to  let  the 
rest  go.     A  beautiful  letter  from  IngersoU. 

Jan.  12. — Perhaps  a  bit  of  ease  to-day.  No  change  to  report. 
I  am  just  in  Warry's  room  from  Walt's  after  20  minutes'  talk 
with  W.  He  was  sane  and  loving.  Of  all  his  distant  friends 
Bucke  and  Ingersoll  seem  most  in  his  mind.  I  asked  as  I  left, 
"What  message  for  Bolton?"  and  he  responded:  "Tell  them  I 
am  very  low — very — very! — that  I  still  have  one  chance  in  four 
or  five — but  only  one,  if  that ;  tell  them  I  am  well  seen  to — that 
I  am  encircled  by  sweet  attentions:  tell  them  I  send  my  best 
affection  and  regard — my  best,  tell  them  " — and  here  he  broke  off 
out  of  sheer  feebleness,  and  I  cried,  "  That  is  enough,  don't  try 
more :  they  will  know  it  all  from  that !  "  and  he  murmured  almost 
in  a  whisper — "  Right !  " 

Jan.  13. — A  trifle  easier  to-day.  He  realizes  little  uninter- 
rupted comfort  so  far.  Naturally,  to  one  in  his  weak  condition 
life  is  undesirable  and  useless,  and  he  is  frank  enough  to  say  he 
regards  his  future  with  fear,  if  not  alarm.  His  nights  are  fright- 
fully restless.  He  calls  again  and  again  and  again  for  the  nurses 
to  rearrange  his  position. 

Jan.  14. — A  trifle  easier  this  evening,  but  weaker.  I  left  the 
house  at  9.30,  and  the  hiccoughs  had  not  yet  appeared.  The 
lungs  seem  quite  clear.  The  lower  part  of  body  gone  to  skin  and 
bone,  the  face  suffering  some  but  not  to  a  sad  degree.  Hands 
thin  and  generally  cold.  Senses  acute.  Cannot  turn  or  even  help 
turn  his  body  about  the  bed,  and  at  times  can  hardly  turn  his 


LAST  DAVS  OF    WALT   WHITMAN. 


Garland 


head  about  the  pilluw.    I  hear  from  all  the  fellowi, 
now  in  Washington. 

Jan.  15. — A  brief  respite  to-day.  No  hiccoughs  for  37  hours ; 
this  unprecedented.  I  reatl  him  part  of  my  Poet  Lore  article. 
He  seemed  intensely  interested,  but  he  was  so  feeble  he  could  not 
have  it  finished  at  one  sitting 

Jan.  16. — Walt  rallied  to-day  enough  to  look  at  ajwper  and  read 
the  Poet  Lore  article  for  himself.  He  expresses  the  (to  me)  most 
astonishing  applause  for  the  article,  and  even  makes  me  promise 
a  copy  for  Tennyson  as  from  him.  Eats  more,  hiccoughs  gone, 
comfort  greater.  Hands  and  feet  all  day  cold  as  ice.  Weak  past 
utterance  still.  Hut  some  real  signs  of  benefit  and  relief.  Weather 
superb  and  cold — fine  skies  and  hope  ahead. 

Jan.  1 7. — Walt  continues  his  extraordinary  rally.  I  look  upon 
it  as  for  the  present  a  distinct  step  beyond  danger  line.  He  may 
live  weeks  or  months  now.  But  do  not  build  too  much  on  this. 
He  has  read  some  to-day. 

Jan.  18. — A  hard  day — but  to-night  he  is  resting  easy  and 
seems  happy  under  some  measure  of  relief. 

Jan.  19. — An  easy  day  for  Walt.* 

Jan.  20. — A  day  of  some  discomfort.  The  nurse  says  she  dis- 
covers a  daily  loss  of  flesh  in  W.  Stedman  over  and  spent  ten 
minutes  with  '   in.     Walt  tried  to  write  to-day  but  gave  up. 

Jan.  21, — Walt  himself  is  so  calm,  so  sure,  so  joyful  (almost), 

*  {Letter  from  Warren  Fritzins;er.) — Same  dale,  to  this  effect:  My 
brother  Harry  had  a  Christmas  present  of  a  Utile  boy  and  he  named  it 
Walt  Whitman  Fritzinger.  When  Mr.  Whitman  was  told  about  it  he  was 
extremely  pleased  and  wanted  to  see  it  at  once.  "  I  want  it  lv  ought  and  laid 
right  there,"  he  said,  putting  his  hand  on  his  breast.  Well,  -n  a  few  days — 
I  think  ten — I  went  down  to  my  brother's  and  brought  the  bal.y  up  along  with 
his  nurse.  The  nurse  took  it  upstairs,  and  Walt  said,  "  O  !  here  comes  the 
baby,  little  Walt  Whitman,  0 1  O !  lay  it  here,"  he  said,  indicating  his  breast. 
It  was  laid  there,  and  he  put  one  hand  up  and  patted  it  and  smiled  and  was 
quite  pleased,  and  said,  "  We  ought  to  have  our  picture  taken  now.  The 
dear  baby,  the  dear  little  thing."  After  about  five  minutes  or  so  we  took  it 
away,  after  he  had  kissed  it  repeatedly.  He  has  inquired  after  it  several 
times  since,  and  always  wants  to  know  how  Harry,  Becky,  and  the  baby 
are. 

27 


4i8 


IN  RE  WALT  WHITMAN. 


i 


now  the  active  horrors  are  all  fled,  that  I  myself  realize  a  certain 
measure  of  relief. 

Ingersoll  came  here  this  evening  with  his  brother-in-law  and 
publisher  between  six  and  seven.  The  talk  and  the  inspiration 
it  meant  for  me  are  beyond  valuation.  And  it  meant  a  thou- 
sand things  for  Walt  and  Ingersoll  as  well.  These  two  giants, 
full  of  ardent  love,  spontaneous  as  children,  brought  face  to  face, 
with  Walt's  imminent  peril  to  brace  against  and  defy — offered  us 
a  picture,  and  one  which  shook  our  hearts.  Words  eloquent 
and  sweet  were  said  on  both  sides,  and  there  were  demonstrations 
of  the  most  subtle  and  delicate  affection.  Matched  with  these 
were  wise  and  manly  consolations,  and  notes  compared  out  of 
deep  soundings.  Things  even  of  the  hastening  world  were 
brought  into  vision,  discussed  and  dismissed.  It  was  a  great 
manifest  of  the  power  that  lives  in  these  two  men — a  splendid 
touch  of  comradeship  in  rare  altitudes  and  with  the  best  applica- 
tions of  genius  and  fidelity.  You  should  have  listened  as  Inger- 
soU's  great  voice  delivered  messages  from  wife  and  daughters — 
as  he  spoke  his  own  fervent  hopes  and  faith,  and  assured  Walt  that 
whether  to  live  or  die,  whether  to  lift  head  as  victor  or  fall  at  the 
last  day,  he,  Ingersoll,  was  his  lover  and  defender,  pledged  and 
armed.  It  was  a  gauge  of  battle,  and  Walt  murmured  to  it,  out 
of  his  feeble  body  but  unshaken  soul:  "I  know,  dear  Colonel, 
I  know — know— know." 

yan.  22. — W.  in  general  recent  tone — not  better,  not  worse, 
so  far  as  outward  indications  go.  He  is  much  pleased  >•<  ith 
Young's  second  article  in  the  Sfar  ["Reminiscences  of  W. 
W  "]. 

_/<!«.  23. — No  change.  Walt  tries  now  to  examine  his  mail. 
He  ha'-  written  a  letter  to  Bucke*  which,  as  he  says,  would  seem 

*  The  letter  in  question  is  given : 

"  Jun.  23,  '92,  p.  M. 

"Am  deadly  weak  yet^-otherwise  inclined  to  favorable — bowel  drain 
sufficient — appetite  fair — the  plaster  cast  come  safe  to  Dr.  J —  Bolton — Ralph 
Moore  is  dead — Tom  Hamed  well — my  doctors  and  attendants  cont  first  rate 
—Horace  ever  faithful— am  propp'd  up  in  bed— <jod  bless  you  all. 

.  .  „      ...  "Walt  Whitman." 

[The  Editors.] 


M' 


LAST  DAYS  OF  WALT  WHITMAN. 


lize  a  certain 


419 


to  show  some  revival  of  "sassiness."  We  have  had  a  good  deaB 
of  snow  lately  and  I  think  it  has  been  of  material  benefit  to  Walt, 
as  to  us. 

/an.  24. — I  have  just  had  quite  a  chat  with  Walt  on  generalt 
matters,  and  find  him  exceedingly  weak.     He  is  conscious  of 
his  failing  flesh  and  strength,  and  freely  makes  confession  of  it.. 
To-day  he  wrote  a  letter  to  his  sister.     It  was  very  short.* 

Jan.  25. — Walt  is  weaker  to-day,  and  Longaker  says  he  is  un- 
doubtedly losing  ground  and  that  his  days  are  numbered.     We 
sorrow  to  hear  of  Symonds'   illness.     I  referred  to  it  in  Walt's; 
presence  to-night,  and  he  took  up  the  strain  of  my  condolence: 
with  real  fervor  and  affection. 

Jan.  26. — No  change  in   W.'s  condition  to  report,  but  wc 
have  ceased  to  entertain  any  but  the  last  hope.     He  has  passed 
a  horribly  weak  day  and  now  sleeps,  but  sleeps  only  lightly,  as 
if,  and  actually,  to  be  shaken  up  by  a  breath.     He  is  emaciated,, 
fearfully  emaciated,  and  the   complexion  is  totally  gone — that, 
rare  red,  which  seemed  the  pure  flush  of  dawn.     He  is  deathly- 
in  temperature  at  times,  and  legs  and  hands  are  cold  and  lifeless.. 
His  voice  varies,  and  is  often  very  weak  and  struggling.     He  is- 
never  able  any  more  to  speak  a  whole  sentence  by  one  effort.. 
H*.  did  a  while  ago  call  out  for  Warry  when  he  desired  some- 
special  attention,   but  even  that  effort  troubled   him,   so   now 
he  keeps  his  cane  on  his  bed  and  taps  with  that  as  signal. 
wand. 

*  Mrs.  Hannah  Heyde,  Burlington,  Vermont: 

"Just  a  line,  sister  dear.     Have  been  very  sick  and  suffered — and  they  say- 
am  better,  but  still  at  death's  door.     Have  the  best  attention  and  watching — 
send  best  love  and  God  bless  you  always.     5  enc'd — bodily  functions  better 
than  you  might  suppose.     It  is  all  right  which  ever  way.     Lou.  and  Geo  and 
Jess  often  come." 

This  note,  and  those  which  follow,  were  mainly  written  with  a  blue  pencil. 
It  appears  on  a  note  sheet,  dated  "  Jan  24,  '92,"  and  is  signed  simply,  "  W. 
W."  Whitman  wrote  three  letters  to  Dr.  Bucke  and  six  to  his  sister  within  the 
period  of  his  last  illness.     We  insert  them  all  in  the  order  of  their  proper- 
dates.     We  give  them  without  repair,  with  iheir  marks  of  physical  feeble- 
ness unmistakably  upon  them. — [The  Editors,] 


I* 

It'' 


t*  p 


I 


420 


IN  BE   WALT  WHITMAN. 


Jan.  27. — No  change.  Walt  wr  'e  to  his  sister*  and  to  Dr. 
Bucke  f  to-day. 

Jan.  29. — No  change.  I  am  not  in  favor  of  life  on  such 
terms,  and  I  know  he  feels  its  weight  and  sorrow.  All  his  re- 
marks to  and  of  his  friends  are  tender.  He  is  always  frankly 
affectionate  with  me.  Wonderfully  still  shines  the  clear  light 
of  the  soul;  no  dimming,  no  loss,  no  trace  of  discontent:  the 
very  central  life  of  him  grand,  sure,  serene,  as  in  his  best  days 
of  health  and  performance. 

Jan.  30. — Walt  experienced  an  easier  though  not  a  stronger 
day,  and  we  have  had  a  good  chat,  in  which  he  evinced  a  thor- 
ough calmness  and  content,  and  expressed  the  most  loving 
thought  of  you  and  others.  He  is  greatly  pleased  that  the 
Morse  bust  reached  you  safely.  He  has  many  kind  words  to  say 
of  that  piece  of  work,  and  really  thinks  that  "  Our  dear,  dear 
Sidney,"  as  he  spoke  of  him  the  other  day,  comes  nearer  the 
"critter,"  and  is  more  faithful  to  the  truth  as  it  is  in  Whitman, 
than  any  other  man  who  has  attempted  to  "do"  him;  and  he 
moreover  declares  the  vigor  and  breadth  of  Morse's  work,  quick 
with  the  instinct  and  generic  quality  of  life.  This  is  his  last 
word  on  that  head. 

Feb.  I. — Walt  looked  worse  this  Tr>orning  than  at  any  time 
^ince  December.    He  passed  a  horribly  restless  night.    Longaker 


l\ 


,1 


*  Whitman's  second  letter  to  his  sister  at  Burlington  ran  as  follows : 

"Jan.  27,  noon. 
"  Much  the  same — weak  and  restless — otherwise  fairly — y'r  letter  came — 
2  enc'd — Geo.  was  here — my  new  fuller  best  ed'n  is  out — have  written  to 
Mary — very  cold  to  day — am  propp'd  up  in  bed — read  the  papers,  &c. — ap- 
petite fair — body  sore  and  feeble — Best  love  and  God  bless  you.     W.  W." 

[The  Editors.] 
f  The  letter  is  appended : 

"  Jan.  27,  noon. 
"  Feeble  and  weak  and  restless,  but  not  without  favorable  points — appeti* 
Isolds  out — eat  two  meals  eveiy  day — bowel  movement  every  day  (rather 
strange  after  such  a  long  interregnum) — McK  was  here — paid  me  $283. — I 
«nc  two  adv't  slips — to  me  the  1892  ed'n  supersedes  them  all  by  far — adv. 
intended  for  N  Y  Trib— God  bless  you.  W.  W." 

[The  Editors.] 


%. 


LAST  DA  YS  OF  WALT  WHITMA. '. 


42T 


tells  me  the  impairment  is  steady.     Pale  and  haggard  as  death 
itself.     But  the  soul  shines  out  a  great  beacon  as  of  old. 

Feb.  2. — Complains  of  severe  pains  in  his  side.  We  do  not 
know  what  they  portend. 

Feb.  3. — After  one  of  his  recent  nights  of  restlessness  the  day 
has  been  a  quiet  sleepy  one  for  Walt.  I  have  this  minute  asked 
him,  "Any  word  for  Bolton?"  and  he  says,  "No,  I  guess  I 
have  no  particular  word."  Yet  he  tells  me  at  all  limes  to  "  keep 
in  touch  with  the  boys  " — and  seems  to  dread  to  have  the  circle 
broken,  or  in  any  way  to  have  his  own  silence  mar  the  joy  of 
our  comradely  sympathies.  I  had  a  tender  telegram  from  Inger- 
soU  to-day,  which  I  repeated  to  Walt,  who  exclaimed,  "The 
dear,  dear  fellow  !     Always  loving  and  great !  " 

Feb.  5. — Continues  in  his  quiet  depression — rarely  says  a  word 
to  any  one  except  when  interrogated.  Strangely  silent.  "  Dear 
doctor,"  says  he,  and  sends  his  love  to  you  [Dr.  Bucke].  To- 
night Jupiter  and  Venus  in  friendly  proximity.  What  phenom- 
ena in  the  clear  sky.  Walt  says  he  would  almost  dare  to  be 
carried  out  to  see  them. 

Feb.  6. — I  hardly  need  to  write  you  anything  to-day,  since 
Walt  has  sent  you  a  word.  And  yet  I  will  write,  if  to  say  no- 
more  than  that  you  must  cherish  that  note  as  a  struggled  last 
word,  written  under  the  saddest  difficulties  and  at  the  price  of 
complete  exhaustion — for  when  it  was  done,  he,  too,  was  done 
and  sank  wearily  back  on  his  pillow.  By  the  application  of  the 
plasters  his  side  is  a  bit  relieved.  But  the  strength  seems  de- 
parted forever.  He  seems  to  be  thoroughly  convinced  of  that 
himself,  and  I  do  not  think  he  has  the  least  notion  he  can  get 
essentially  better  than  he  is  now. 

Feb.  7. — I  supposed  Walt  had  finished  your  letter  yesterday, 
but  he  holds  it  and  has  added  something  more  to-day.  So  far 
as  he  is  concerned  there  does  not  seem  to  be  any  visible  change 
at  all.  He  passes  abjectly  weak  days,  with  comfort  about  all 
gone  and  even  sound  rest  not  regular  or  long. 

Feb.  8. — We  here  watch  Walt  as  he  holds  his  slender  claim 
against  death.  All  is  pain  and  unrest.  He  asked  me  this  even- 
ing to  give  you  this  counsel :  "  If  entirely  convenient  facsimile 


I 


i"^ 


422 


JN  RE  WALT  WHITMAN. 


the  letter  of  February  6th  and  send  it  copiously  to  European 
and  American  friends  and  friends  anywhere,"  letting  us  have 
copies  here  as  well.  It  meant  a  great  struggle  to  get  this  letter 
written,  and  he  wishes  it  to  go  out  as  his  general  salutation  of 
friends  to  whom  his  strength  will  not  permit  him  specially  to 
write.  It  was  framed  with  that  end  in  view.  I  give  you  his 
own  words  written  down  as  he  laboredly  uttered  them.*  Saw  a 
letter  at  Walt's  this  morning  from  Hallam  Tennyson,  convey- 
ing a  message  from  his  father.  Walt  asleep,  and  I  did  not  open  it.f 

■"■  The  letter  was  to  this  effect : 

"Feh  6,  1892. — Well  I  must  send  you  all  dear  fellows  a  word  from  my 
own  hAiid — propp'd  up  in  bed,  deac  ■  weak  yet,  but  the  spark  seems  to 
glimmer  yet — the  doctors  and  nurses  y  Mew  York  friends  as  faithful  as  ever 
— Here  is  the  adv.  of  the  92  edn.  Dr.  Bucke  is  well  &  hard  at  work.  Col. 
Ingersoll  has  been  here — sent  a  b.-isket  of  champagne.  All  are  good — phy- 
sical conditions  &c  are  not  so  bad  as  you  might  suppose,  only  my  sufferings 
much  of  the  time  are  i^arful — Again  I  repeat  my  thanks  to  you  &  cheery 
British  friends    may  be  last — my  right  arm  giving  out. 

"V  .LT  Whitman. 

"Feb.  7. — Same  cond'n  cont'd — More  and  more  it  comes  to  the  fore  that 
'the  only  theory  worthy  our  modern  times  for  g't  literature  politics  and  soci- 
ology must  combine  all  the  best  people  of  all  lands,  the  women  not  forget- 
ting.— But  the  mustard  plaster  on  my  side  is  stinging  &  I  must  stop— Good 
ibye  to  all.       ;    -  v  W.  W." 

[The  advertisement  referred  to  reads  thus : 

"  Walt  Whitman  wishes  respectfully  to  notify  the  public  that  the  book 
■'  Leaves  of  Grass,'  which  he  has  been  working  on  at  great  intervals  and' 
p.irtially  issued  for  the  past  thirty-five  or  forty  years,  is  now  completed,  so  to 
■call  it,  and  he  would  like  this  new  1892  edition  to  absolutely  supersede  all 
previous  ones.  Faulty  as  it  is,  he  decides  it  as  i)y  far  his  special  and  entire 
self-chosen  poetic  utterance." 

It  is  of  Whitman's  own  make,  worked  out  in  the  midst  of  the  cares  of  those 
days. — The  Editors.]  .    ,  .  i  .    ^  ,  •  . 

■(•  Again  Whitman  writes  to  Burlington : 

..'...".  "  Monday,  p.  M.,  Feb.  8,  '92. 

**  Much  the  same  cond'n  cont'd.  Am  probably  growing  weaker.  Will 
not  write  much — $2  enc'd — Best  love  and  God  bless  you.  W.  W. 

,  "  Geo.  here  yesterday."  [The  Editors.] 


LAST  DAYS  OF  WALT  WHITMAN. 


433 


cares  of  those 


He  has  sent  four  or  five  lines  to  Bucke *  again.     He  says :  "The 
good  doctor!  Iwish  I  could  send  him  nuore." 

Feb.  9. — I  have  just  finished  a  talk  with  Whitman.  His  hand 
and  head  are  happily  warm,  and  I  enjoyed  having  it  so — for 
usually  he  lives  and  glows  in  spots,  and  I  marvel  al  times  how 
one  part  of  him  should  be  buovitnt  and  hopeful  with  physical 
life,  and  another  as  dead  as  death.  We  almost  see  the  touch  of 
death  in  Walt  at  times,  and  again  are  transported  with  signs  of 
corporeal  elation.  But  in  real  sober  fact,  he  sees  as  clearly  as 
we  see  that  the  end  is  near — that  at  most  the  lapse  is  a  matter  of 
weeks.  He  says  this  to  us  now  day  by  day,  and  protests  that  it 
is  not  our  part  as  brave  and  candid  men  to  shelter  ourselves  be- 
hind a  delusion.  His  talk  of  high  themes — of  the  general  trend 
of  woiMly  affairs — is  still  clear  and  cogent ;  but  he  rarely  dwells 
upon  them  of  his  own  acc~'d,  and  only  now  and  then  encourages 
any  discussion  of  them  in  his  presence.  I  suppose  I  am  the  only 
one  with  whom  he  really  converses  on  such  subjects,  except  as  men 
like  Ingersoll  or  Stedman  drop  in.  Walt  is  no  better  to-day 
than  yesterday,  and  yesterday  was  a  bad  day  indeed.  I  think 
the  death  of  George  Stafford  affected  him  somewhat.  His  niece 
and  Mrs.  Louisa  Whitman  here  to-day. 

Feb.  10. — Walt  has  passed  a  bad  day  to-dt.y.  He  calls  it 
"glum,"  and  says  he  is  at  his  worst.  I  have  a  melancholy 
letter  from  Symonds.  Walt  insisted  on  hearing  the  whole  letter. 
While  I  was  reading  it  Gilder,  of  the  Century,  came  in, 
but  W.  was  in  too  enfeebled  a  condition  to  give  him  more  than 
five  minutes.  Ingersoll  writes  a  fine  letter  to  Walt  and  another 
to  me.  I  hear  from  Bucke  daily.  Burroughs  writes  every  now 
and  then.  Kennedy  too.  Walt's  own  mail  from  strangers  has 
dropped  to  a  cipher.  '       ■  ..-.'- 

*  This  constitutes  his  last  direct  conimunication  with  Dr.  Bucke  on  earth : 

»•  Monday,  Feb.  8,  P.  M.,  '92. 

"  Geo  Staflbrd  the  father  is  dead — buried  to  morrow — I  keep  on  much  the 

same — probably  growing  weaker — ^bowel  movement  an  hour  ago — bad  steady 

pain  in  left  side  what  I  call  underbelly — Dr  McA  here  daily — God  bless 

you  all.  •  -v.    •••■    w   •  -•       -•     ••  Walt  Whitman."    • 

[The  Editors.}  > 


^J 


■w 


424 


IN  RF   WALT    (VHITMAN. 


M  r\ 


Feb.  II. — I  have  just  had  a  talk  with  Walt.  He  laughed,  was 
serious,  was  interested,  was  quizzical,  very  much  as  of  old;  but 
he  was  weak,  he  was  discouraged,  he  was  imperilled — and  this  he 
knew  too — and  this  was  not  the  old  status.  And  here  is  the  dif- 
ference— and  hereby  are  we  watching  at  the  gates  of  death.  Yet 
I  have  hours  which  seem  to  push  away  all  possibility  and  taste 
of  despair.  I  realize  his  condition — yet  find  the  soul  so  triumphant 
I  cannot  believe  it  dragged  down  to  the  body's  death.  Nor  will 
it  be! 

Walt  is  in  much  earnest  about  i\\Q  facsimile  [of  letter  Feb.  6]. 
He  writes  practically  nothing.  His  last  letter  to  Bucke — only  a 
couple  of  lines — Bucke  says  was  in  the  worst  hand  he  had  ever 
known  from  Walt.  To-night  I  got  him  to  write  his  signature  for 
use  in  a  newspaper  {N.  Y.  Telegram),  and  the  job  completely 
exhausted  him — though  he  did  it  with  determined,  if  very  shaky 
and  feeble  hand. 

Feb.  12. — I  have  just  had  a  talk  with  W.,  but  he  was  so  weak, 
after  passing  a  bad  day,  that  he  was  not  able  to  say  much  or  to 
manifest  any  great  interest.  I  told  him  I  would  go  into  the  next 
room  and  send  a  line  to  you,  whereat  he  advised  me  to  include 
his  love  to  you  all,  with  special  remembrances  to  George  Hum- 
phreys ar.vl  Fred  Wild,  and  particular  affectionateness  to  J.  W.  W. 
He  loves  you  all  and  his  nvveet  words  of  you  should  exalt  you 
forever.  To-day's  mail  brought  me  a  letter  from  Carpenter  and 
a  postal  from  Rudolf  Schmidt. 

Feb.  15. — No  change  in  Walt.  He  has  slept  all  day,  with 
hardly  a  word  for  any  one.  Has  lately  sho.i'n  a  marked  disposition 
of  this  sort.     It  is  dreadful  to  have  him   ive  in  this  condition. 

The  N.  Y.  Telegram  of  Saturday  cont  lined  some  matter  about 
Walt.     They  are  getting  money  for  flowers  for  him. 

Feb.  17. — The  prospects  ahead  are  gloomy  in  the  extreme. 
When  the  Telegram  speaks  of  these  as  W.'s  dying  days  he  accepts 
the  statement  as  truth.  But  the  constant  attentions,  the  pro- 
vision of  foods  to  meet  all  humors  and  necessities,  and  the  service 
of  his  friends  on  every  side,  are  bound  to  prolong  his  life  and 
make  the  inroads  upon  his  remaining  strength  slow  and  imper> 
ceptible. 


ri  lijilrtdjii 


LAST  DA  YS  OF   WALT  WHITMAN. 


4a$ 


Feb.  19. — Walt  worse  again  to-day — and  still  we  hope.  It  is 
like  the  cadence  in  sad  music — the  wave  is  up  and  down — we  ride 
its  crest  and  know  its  hollows. 

Fe/f.  20. — The  bad  reports  of  yesterday  cannot  be  made  brighter 
by  to-day's.  He  rests  all  day  long,  not  sleeping,  but  dozing, 
and  will  not  manifest  any  interest  in  anything  under  the  sun. 
He  does  not  say  a  word  about  you  or  about  any  one — not  because 
he  forgets,  but  because  the  pressure  of  pain  holds  him  down 
stiffly  to  his  reserves.  The  only  hope  now  is  for  him  to  maintain 
absolute  privacy  and  peace — to  sweep  away  all  interests  and 
anxieties — to  retire  into  himself,  back  to  nature,  and  let  the 
winds  and  seas  sail  him  whither  they  will.  If  to  life,  sweet  and 
good — if  to  death,  still  sweet  and  good  :  that  always  has  been, 
and  would  be,  and  is,  his  philosophy. 

.  Walt  tells  me  always  to  •'  keep  in  touch  with  the  boys  every- 
where," to  take  his  place,  now — at  least,  in  those  minor  matters 
which  another  may  hold  in  hand. 

Feb.  21. — As  Carpenter  says  to  me,  Walt  does  seem  to  turn 
away  from  the  scenes  and  claims  of  this  earthly  life — to  take 
serene  wing  to  other  spheres,  away  into  the  eternal  silences.  He 
tells  me:  "I  seem  to  be  washed  out — to  go  forth  with  the  tide — 
the  never-returning  tide."  And  usually,  when  I  ask  him  for  mes- 
sages for  others,  he  gives  me  some  such  word  as  that — and  it  is  a 
sad  word  to  us,  though  it  may  seem  to  make  eternity  more  glo- 
rious. We  will  almost  envy  the  other  world  that  receives  him. 
And  yet  Walt  says  always  :  "  I  am  no  saint.  Don't  let  our  Bolton 
fellows  tumble  into  that  bog" — though  more  our  comrade,  doubt- 
less, because  not  saint. 

•  Feb.  22. — I  was  a  party  with  Walt  this  morning  to  the  signing 
of  some  contract  papers — going  to  New  York,  to  Webster.  Walt's 
signature  was  very  bad,  but  still  characteristic.  We  made  an  ex- 
change of  beds,  too — (I  bought  him  a  bed  out  of  the  Telegram 
flower  fund).  We  feared  the  moving  might  shock  him — but  he 
was  not  disturbed.  Indeed,  he  expressed  immediate  pleasure  in 
the  new  order.     But  he  was  afterwards  thoroughly  exhausted. 

Feb.  23. — Have  just  had  a  talk  with  Walt,  and  while  he  is 
in  sad    bodily  condition,    his    heart   and   faith    are   up    with. 


426 


.  IN  RE  WALT  WHITSfAN. 


full  sail,  and  he  is  at  the  wheel.  But  strangely  silent  day  by 
•day. 

(Later.) — Your  cable  just  here. — Thanks — thanks  from  both  of 
ais.  He  has  handed  it  to  me  with  request  to  acknowledge.  He 
cannot  write.  Very  serene — uncomplaining — but  certainly  at  the 
edge  of  things.* 

Feb.  25. — For  the  first  time  since  December,  Walt  has 
seemed  to  show  some  signs  of  a  rally,  though  just  now,  in  my 
talk  with  him,  he  was  despondent  enough  and  said  his  apparent 
•change  was  only  apparent.  .  Letters  from  Carpenter  and 
IngersolL 

Feb.  26. — Walt's  improvement  yesterday  not  continued.  He 
asks  about  the /ac-simi/es  every  day — anxious  as  a  child. 

Feb.  28. — Walt  has  seemingly  reached  a  stage  low  down  and 
there  must  halt — his  eye  still  up,  but  his  body  dragging  him  'ower 
and  lower  into  the  nether  pits.  Still  the  silence,  still  the  much 
sleep.  He  reads  his  mail  and  the  paper  every  day,  then  relapses 
in  great  fatigue.  I  keep  him  supplied  with  choice  brandy  (1825) 
Avhich  they  m.-'ke  into  a  punch  for  him,  and  which  he  calls  his 
"grog" — he  seeming  from  this  mixture  to  get  the  best  physical 
joy  he  chances  upon  these  days.  All  his  old  simple  habits  and 
•expressions  cling  to  him — all  the  naturalness  which  has  made  him 
the  man  he  is.     He  will  leave  us  unclothed,  as  he  came. 

Feb.  29. — Walt  has  been  wrapt  in  shadows  to-day,  realizing 
one  of  his  worst  attacks  of  depression,  mental  and  physical.  He 
was  hardly  able  to  talk  with  me  to-night,  and  as  I  sat  at  his  bed- 
side, and  read  him  a  letter  I  received  from  Hallam  Tennyson  this 
morning,  he  was  pale  as  death  and  seemed  incapable  of  taking 
any  thorough  interest  in  what  I  said,  or  in  the  significance  of  the 
message.  But  he  was  touched  and  murmured  forth  his  gratitude, 
lam  not  sure  but  to-day's  evil  is  the  reflex  of  the  day,  which 
is  clouded  and  rainy,  with  a  prevailing  cold  northeast  wind.  He 


*  Whitman  writes  a  fourth  note  to  his  sister  at  Burlington  : 

"  Feb.  24,  '92 

"  Still  very  poorly — wearing — much  same — Lou  here — Jess  back  in  St 
•Geo.  sick  rheumatism — 5  enc'd — Best  love  as  always.  W.  W." 

4.  .:  .  [The  Editors.] 


LAST  DAYS  OF  WALT  WHITMAN. 


4«7 


wishes  you  to  send  a  copy  of  the /ac-simi/g  to  L.  M.  Brown,  Not- 
tingham, and  to  Rudolf  Schmidt. 

March  i. — Walt  has  spent  to-day  as  bad  a  day  as  any  he  has 
known  since  December,  and  this  evening  seems  depleted  of  all 
his  strength  and  hope. 

March  2. — No  change  in  alifairs  here.  It  is  a  sad  chronicle, 
yet  one  full  of  victorious  lessons,  loo.  I  have  had  a  talk  with 
W. — the  first,  they  told  me,  had  by  him  with  anyone  to-day. 
He  even  laughed  at  my  merry-making  description  of  a  tiff  be- 
tween    and .     Frightfully  worn   and   pale,  lips  blue, 

hands  cold,  and  eyes  dull.  But  so  earnest  and  kind,  so  willing 
to  say  right  things  and  do  good  deeds  and  make  even  these  last 
feeble  endeavors  regnant  of  old  royalty — his  pride  of  person- 
ality lofty  and  secure  and  unruffled  !  Such  an  old  age  and  such 
a  sickness  as  go  to  his  eternal  evidence,  and  will  be  to  me,  its 
witness,  the  warrant  for  many  a  proud  word  should  I  live  in  years 
to  come.  We  spoke  of  things  and  people  to-night,  a  word  being 
put  in  of  you  fellows,  and  a  reminder  of  the  plain  men  at  the 
ferry,  and  not  a  little  in  connection  with  the  nearer  necessities 
and  sufferings,  from  which  he  never  can  escape  for  an  hour  and 
which  are  our  perpetual  grief.  Not  a  point  seems  gained, 
and  he  suffers  past  patience — though  he  patiently  endures! 
To-day  he  speaks  of  his  miseries  as  having  new  aspects — great 
pain  when  he  lies  /f/t,  and  choking  when  he  lies  rt'^h^.  He  says: 
"  I  shall  never  see  the  boys  at  the  ferry  again."  <      . 

March  3. — The  story  continues,  dear  comrades,  without  that 
touch  of  cheer  and  passage  of  hope  which  we  look  for  with  eager 
eyes  and  fail  to  find.  Dear  Walt !  he  is  low  in  silence,  far  gone 
in  weakness,  in  eye  dull,  in  face  pale,  in  temperature  cold,  in 
hope  deserted,  in  content  unmoved,  in  serenity  complete.  To 
look  on  all  this  is  not  to  deny. but  that  victory  is  fulfilled  in  him — 
in  his  ever  sweet  savor  of  happy  peace  and  incuriosity  about 
death. 

Somehow,  sometimes,  at  odd  moments,  I  seem  to  realize  a  hap- 
piness, as  if  this  which  to  others  is  pain  must  be  to  him  glory 
*nd  victory  and  celebrate  a  high  decree. 

McAlister  says  to-day  that  Walt  has  lost  more  in  the  three  days 


1" 

^1 


ii. 


4*8 


IN  RK    WALT   WHITMAN. 


fo  I 


past  than  in  the  equal  number  of  weeks  before.  This  downward 
tendency  must  of  course  be  stemmed,  or  he  will  not  last  much 
longer,  'jiit,  like  Bucke,  I  hardly  fear  any  sudden  or  quick  col- 
lapse. I  am  afraid  he  will  go  down  slowly,  inexorably — will 
make  the  pace  so  slow  tlie  escape  will  be  like  a  whisper,  a  sigh, 
a  lapsing  breeze.  He  has  asked  for  neither  papers  nor  mail  to- 
day. The  visits  of  friends  are  almost  entirely  cut  off,  and  his 
correspondence  is  fallen  quite  ignobly,  till  (except  for  one  or  two 
persons,  you  among  them)  it  is  dust  and  ashes. 

March  4. — Facsimiles  here.  Walt  is  pleased  and  hastens 
thanks  and  love.  The  \)00v  facsimile  !  or  that  poor  original, 
trembling,  orthographically  faulty,  but  bravely  determined,  and 
with  eyes  out  and  ap,  from  whatever  seas  of  drowning  pain  ! 
As  if  his  last  word  tiie  lips  closing  forever,  held  n)en  to  eternal 
promises,  to  supernal  truths.  He  wrote  a  short  note  to-day  to 
Mrs.  Heyde.* 

March  5. — No  change.  Less  able  to  talk  than  last  night.  The 
right  side  trouble  persists.  When  he  lies  this  way  he  is  much 
choked  and  can  scarcely  speak  for  rising  and  falling  of  mucus. 
Rarely  can  stand  this  tack  more  than  ten  minutes  or  fifteen.  It 
is  hard,  hard,  to  have  him  so  close,  yet  to  see  him  so  subtly  drift- 
ing away — to  see  that  our  best  endeavor  cannot  hold  him  back, 
though  he  still  lingers  on  the  crests  and  in  the  shadows  of  the 
tumultuous  waves,  within  hail  and  call,  and  sends  us  cheery 
response  to  every  salute.  I  think  he  wishes  me  to  give  the  letter 
of  February  7th  to  the  papers  here.  He  calls  it  "  represent- 
ative," and  regards  it  as  a  general  recognition  and  kiss  to  friends 
everywhtie.  He  loves  you  and  thinks  of  you  often,  but  his 
words  testifying  thereto  are  scarce. 

Afarch  7. — Walt  fearfully  down — a  bad  day  throughout — and 
now  he  is  in  for  a  restless  night.     This  restlessness    appears 

*  Note  number  five  to  Burlington : 

"  March  4,  '92. 
"  Still  lingering  along  pretty  low — Lou  here  yasterday — ^Jess  well  St.  L— 
5  enc'd — Best  love  to  you  and  God  bless  you.  W.  W." 

At  one  point  in  thlj  letter  Whitman  had  gone  over  his  pencilled  line  with 
a  pen.  [The  Editors.] 


LAST  DAYS  OF   WALT   WHITMAS. 


4J9 


with  early  evening,  works  its  way  fretfully  into  the  midnight, 
then  pours  down  like  a  great  flood,  overwhelming  peace,  until 
morning  is  advanced.  He  is  pale  and  blue,  his  eyes  are  sunken, 
his  temples  have  fallen  in,  his  cheeks  are  flat  and  poor,  and  his 
body  is  terribly  emaciated.  He  suffers  constant  and  intense  pain. 
He  told  me  this  evening  calmly  and  rationally  that  he  felt  death 
itself  upon  him.  I  almost  hope  that  to-morrow,  or  any  near 
day,  may  release  him — for  the  spectacle  of  his  pain  is  one 
to  break  your  heart.  My  sorrow  is  not  made  less  by  the  knowl- 
edge that  he  never  breathes  any  complaint,  but  is  as  nolily 
serene  as  in  health.  It  is  marvellous  how  his  grand  soul  triumphs 
over  all  physical  disaster  and  holds  its  old  music  like  a  r:iluent 
sea.  Last  night  I  kissed  him  good-bye  and  said,  "  Dear  Walt, 
you  do  not  realize  what  you  have  been  to  us!"  to  which  he 
murmured,  "  Nor  you  what  you  have  been  to  me  !  " 

Mrs.  Keller  leaves  to-morrow,  and  Mrs.  Davis  and  Warry  will 
a.ssume  the  watching  between  them — some  one  being  engaged  to 
relieve  Mrs.  Davis  in  the  kitchen.  Walt  takes  the  change  very 
hard,  and  we  all  regret  it,  but  Mrs.  Keller  had  made  an  advance 
contract  with  another  person  many  months  ago. 

March  8. — Have  just  had  a  word  with  Walt.  After  his  dread- 
ful night  he  has  lived  through  a  silent  day.  I  found  hiiP  really 
too  weak  to  talk.  He  seemed  pleased  to  hear  I  was  to  write  to 
you. 

March  9. — Poor  dear  Walt  I  Sheltering  in  silence,  not  saying 
word  or  doing  deed  further  to  complicate  himself  with  our  world 
— the  body  maimed  and  broken — the  spirit  proud  but  fleeting. 

P.  M. — Nothing  is  more  painful  than  his  silence — yet  nettling 
more  natural,  either.  My  talks  with  him  are  few  and  not  full, 
and  consist  generally  and  mainly  of  the  simpler  affairs  of  speech 
or  of  those  direct  matters  which  pertain  to  his  own  business  and 
which  I  have  to  watch  and  keep  straight.  This  silence  will 
doubtless  increase.  His  history  is  now  narrowing  down  to  a  few 
spare  sentences  and  constant  attentions. 

March  10. — You  would  be  much  shocked  to  see  Walt  as  he  is 
now.  He  is  more  and  more  silent.  All  this  day  he  has  hardly 
said  a  word  in  the  way  of  conversation  except  to  me,  and  even 


m 


i'« 


'!.»'> 


/.V  KN   WAIT   WniTMAy. 


tc»  inr  he  wonlil  |ii()ltal)lv  linvr  wiiil  lilllf  il  wonls  I  rHHiially 
(lnt|i|it'(i  hiui  not  cxi  itcti  wliiit  lilllo  tliorc  \n  Icll  in  hint  nl  tlic 
ittihirr  ol  tnrumity.  lie  in  tnrncd  and  tnrnol,  hour  a^ainnt  Ixitir. 
(lay  iiiul  night,  iiowlu'rr  loully  k-hIimI  anil  at  no  time  iMtjoyinj; 
nlwohili'ly  painh-HH  NJinnlirr.  'I'lic  |ialiiMi<c  with  whii  h  ho  ondinc  . 
tilts  IS  iiis|iiiing  ami  il  aiiyihing  rmiUI  bring  a  man  tliroiigh,  it 
would  be  N(irl)  a  dcinoiiNtration  of  contont  niul  rcpoHO  an  wv  dis- 
lovor  in  Walt.  Tlu'  eye  is  dull  />n/  /otrx  out  Iht  xivrttrU  tHtin 
(ffsts.  1  am  torn  lu'd  to  the  <|ni«  k.  when  I  wilncss  (he  drama,  as 
it  |iro)tTds,  slow  pai  ««l,  into  llu'  niglil.  The  gloom  galhrrn  - 
yet  he  got*N  nnappallod  into  the  ctcrnai  shadows,  ilow  miK  h  of 
hJH  voi«- 'Nlill  ismnsir  !     Ilow  arc  his  utloran«i'H  strong  and  vital  I 

Af,if,/i  II.  —  Ml'  has  been  in  nik  h  a  state  to-day  over  that  right- 
Bide  trouble  that  he  lias  nl  no  time  been  able  lo  rest  thai  way 
more  than  five  mimiles.  This  makes  the  strain  on  the  (son  ) 
leH  side  greater.  1 1  is  flesh  Iwih  so  far  gone  that  he  cannot  lie 
on  his  liai  k  at  all.  My  love  lo  yon  all— and  Walt'H.  "Alwayn 
M.;/."  says  W.dl. 

Afi,/nii;/i/.  —  I  am  just  bark  from  Walt's,  wiiere  [  Nat  with  Warry 
on  my  thiid  rail,  from  la  :  lu  lo  u  ;  45,  Walt  in  the  next  room 
breathing  his  dillii  ult  hours  away  In  pain  and  unrest,  t  never 
half  believed  he  wonUI  have  to  pass  through  this  fire,  lie  tlocs 
it  with  more  than  a  inarlyr's  (ontent  and  grace. 

,}fiif</i  I  J. — The  pains  imreasc.  Ilow  terribly  he  suffers — 
yet  he  is  so  voiceless,  so  patient,  so  sweet  lo  those  who  serve 
him.  You  would  weep  to  be  here  at  his  bedside  and  to  witness 
the  struggle  and  the  heroism  ;  weep  for  joy  as  well  as  sympathy, 
for  such  a  spe«'tarle  is  inspiration  itself— a  life  set  in  Ncripluic. 

He  speaks  loving  words  of  you  all,  when  1  lOiivey  by  sign  or 
sentence  some  eviilence  of  your  love.  (Itlier  times  he  is  silent. 
Hut  on  the  bed  of  pain  his  joy  has  been  to  feel  the  Rlrong  arms 
— yours  and  others— under  him. 

Signs  of  marked  loss.  He  is  80  far  in  the  descent,  I  dread 
hourly  that  necessity  will  compel  me  to  cable  you.  Two  letters 
from  Symonds  to-day  which  in  the  evening  I  read  to  Walt- 
much  to  his  joy.     He  was  moved  and  wept.  . 

Match  13.— liravc  heart,  brave  in  the  high  faculties  of  man- 


f.Asr  PAYS  Oh-   WAIT   WHirU.iX. 


4.1  • 


IumhI — Hoot)  If)  Ih*  Rwrpt  from  o\ir  km  I  I  <  lu'iiHli  llu*  few  'Vdnln 
I  Itiwe  v.itl)  liiii)  Mow.  'I'liry  arc  Itnly  willni  nat  rnl  mil*'!*'.  It 
h  n  Itanl  Itatlli',  Wnll  Imlils  U\n  way  nlill,  Ittit  with  U'r\At't  piiliR. 
He  miys  iiuthinK  of  lilo  or  iIimIIi,  navi'  when  s|Mikrii  lO  '<r  (jiirN' 
tioiu'd,  and  even  i|iK'nlionH  arc  like  m  not  to  f(o  nnaltnuli-il. 
We  rrN|K'(-t  l)i<i  ilcNircs  atiit  lot  liiitt  m  iii|tnloiis|y  alonr,  ailnnlliiiK 
no  vinilorN  and  rarrly  noing  into  llio  room  oiirMrlvc'i,  «'xrr|it  when 
roi',miiH<<ioiH'd  or  rnpiiri'd.  Now  and  tlirn  a  Iricnd  will  < duir, 
and  v.*  lot  liiin  |icT|t  into  tlic  room.  Hut  Wait  lias  Kot  ho  low  ' 
we  di  not  in  .iny  other  way  advinc  him  of  vJHitorH.  I  had  oidy 
0  Wfi'  t>H  talk  with  him  thin  rvcning.  I  In  wan  too  weary  and  tirrd 
to  Nay  mix  h  or  to  intcrrst  liimHcIf  in  what  I  had  to  tril  him.  Ili<i 
roHKh,  when  on  the  rl^lit  Hide,  is  grievous  ;  and  the  doriornnvni 
fear  thai  there  may  ronie  new  trouble  with  the  ri^ht  lim^.  I  tin 
left  le^  and  foot  a((|naint  him  wilii  n  new  Huireriii);.  lie  <<remn 
doomed  to  f{o  down  in  ntorm — in  niiirerin^  and  pain.  Wo  had 
hoped  tor  other  lelease.  lint  hi:*  patience,  hin  (|ilit't,  hi»  ...ililimc 
nweetness,  disarm  the  hallalioim  of  ill. 

/lAr/v/r  I.}.  I  am  jiiit  here  altera  look  in  upon  Wall,  and  a 
mere  word  with  him.  lie  in  no  heltcr,  hin  lmnin){s arc  incessant, 
nnd  I  can  read  in  his  face  the  visible  si^nn  of  dissolution.  I  ludd 
rac  h  added  day  precioim.  The  horror  to  have  him  «()  and  the 
horror  to  have  him  slay  in  misery  kcc|)  constant  battle  in  my 
brain  and  heart. 

MV/rA  -  No  one  can  rnivc  to  have  the  HulTering  prolonged. 
To  day  has  been  like  all  the  recent  days  before  it — low,  weak, 
Borrowful.  The  ri^ht  Iuiik  is  complicating  mnttcm.  Lon^aker 
tells  mc  he  discovered  Saturday  that  it  was  doin^  very  little 
work.  The  December  trouble  was  never  really  and  fully 
Miaken  o(T.  (.o'lgaker  regards  the  Hitualion  nn  critical  nnd  looks 
for  an  eml  any  time,  yet  is  unwilling  to  predi«t  anythinK.  I  have 
spent  the  day  and  eveuin^^  in  true  sorrow.  The  pitiable  struggles 
forced  upon  Walt,  now  the  end  seems  so  near,  arc  dark  and  wo- 
ful,  nnd  strike  like  ice  to  my  heart.  Yet  his  attitude  is  so  con- 
tained, nnd  he  is  so  sweet,  having  not  the  first  word  in  the  way 
of  complaint  to  utter,  I  am  rescued  from  despair.  As  you  have 
said,  he  teaches  us  a  new  bravery  towards  death.  These  laical 
a8 


AS* 


IN  BE  WALT  WHITMAN. 


W 


aspects  are  profoundly  touching.  He  is  fondly  considerate  of  us 
all.  Yet  the  watch,  the  sacred  vigil,  iiight  and  day,  invokes  and 
demands  our  highest  art  and  heroism.  It  is  a  death  that  becomes 
him  and  that  he  becomes.  Sometime  I  shall  have  a  story  to  tell 
of  these  days. 

March  15 — Morning. — I  fear  that  some  fatal  cable  message 
may  out-leap  this  letter.  I  hope  for  better  fortune  but  fear  the 
worst.  Though  one  must  not  call  that  worst  which  will  give 
Walt  rest  and  release.  My  whole  life  rounds  to  that  prayer.  It 
springs  a  thousand  times  a  day  to  my  lips  and  fills  my  sleep  with 
dreams.  When  I  talked  with  him  he  was  too  weak  to  lift  his  hand 
to  shake  with  me.  But  when  I  said,  "  I  am  sorry  you  must  suffer 
so,"  he  struggled  and  responded,  "All — right  " — so  to  utter  his 
content  even  at  the  last  strain  and  torture. 

6:  10  P.  M. — I  have  just  finished  a  talk  with  Walt.  He 
seems  to  me  a  bit  easier  than  this  morning.  The  doctors  report 
a  perceptible  failure  of  strength  during  the  last  few  days.  Walt 
himself  seems  to  have  no  hope  or  expectation.  Brave  as  ever, 
bright  so  far  as  mental  content  goes. 

6:  20  P.  M. — I  have  just  read  Walt  your  [J.  W.  W.'s]  brief 
note,  which  came  to-day.  It  touched  him,  but  he  made  no 
comment.     Comments  are  scarce  ;  he  is  silent  and  composed. 

March  16. — Walt  spent  the  same  restless  night — was  turned 
and  turned  and  turned  again.  It  is  a  sad  story,  but  he  bears  it 
with  wonderful  serenity  and  heroism. 

Evening. — Walt  has  passed  another  day  without  event,  with- 
out hope,  without  alleviation.  He  seems  to  go  more  and  more 
into  seclusion — to  crave  the  inner  temple — the  last  stronghold, 
the  silent  boundary. 

March  17. — Walt  recovers  sufficiently  to  write  his  sister 
again.*     He  has  unmistakably  eased  a  bit  to-day,  and  gives 

*  And  this  is  the  last  letter  written  by  Walt  Whitman  : 

"  Camden,  March  17th. 
"Unable  to  write  much — 5  enc'd — y'r  good  letter  rec'd — God  bless  you. 

„  w.  w." 
Some  of  his  pencilled  lines  in  this  letter  were  so  unformed  that  he  had 
tremblingly  gone  over  them  with  ink.  [The  Editors.] 


hope  that  for 

this  for  mor 

having  broug 

March  18. 

severe  pain  i 

pain,  and  th( 

connection. 

March  19. 

without  the  1 

by  outward  i 

poor  fortress 

the  flag  abov 

Walt.     His 

subtle  but  ce 

March  20 

sore  and  soi 

living  throu 

the  promise 

March  21 

The  doctor 

could  be  di 

once  or  tw 

whose  edge 

ism  is  the  1 

water  mark. 

March  2; 

bed  for  Wal 

disposed  to 

has  much  ti 

he  can. 

March  2 

This  has  b 

eat  a  bite  ti 

Turnings  n 

Midnighi 

again.     H( 

stored  to  1 
28 


LAST  DAYS  OF  WALT  WHITMAN. 


43J 


hope  that  for  the  present  decline  is  arrested.  Do  not  count 
this  for  more  than  it  comes  to.  Weather  very  bad,  the  day 
having  brought  in  the  heaviest  snowfall  of  the  season. 

March  i8. — By  no  means  up  to  yesterday's  promise.  The 
severe  pain  in  W.'s  left  ankle  increases.  Bucke  holds  that  this 
pain,  and  the  trouble  up  the  side,  above  and  at  the  hip,  have  a 
connection. 

March  19. — It  is  hard  to  see  this  drag  on  without  break  and 
without  the  prospect  of  release.  The  evil  signs  accumulate,  yet 
by  outward  indications  Walt  holds  his  own.  It  has  come  to  a 
poor  fortress,  but  the  last  citadel,  though  shaken,  is  still  held — 
the  flag  above  it  triumphant.  I  am  thinking  of  a  water  bed  for 
Walt.  His  soreness  increases  and  the  emaciation  goes  on  by 
subtle  but  certain  stages.     He  does  very  little  talking. 

March  20. — No  hope  tor  us  and  no  comfort  for  Walt.  He  is 
sore  and  sore,  and  his  turnings  become  more  frequent.  We  are 
living  through  a  series  of  beautiful  days  which  fail  to  bring  us 
the  promise  we  crave. 

March  21. — The  story  goes  on  without  incident  or  relief. 
The  doctors  are  very  faithful,  and  everything  seems  done  that 
could  be  done.  We  always  find  W.  in  grateful  mood.  Only 
once  or  twice  has  he  been  a  bit  sharp — but  with  a  sharpness 
whose  edg:  is  easily  and  quickly  taken  off.  A  contained  hero- 
ism is  the  rule.  No  mortal  is  perfect,  but  W.  touches  a  high- 
water  rrark. 

Marrh  22. — No  change  for  the  better.  Have  secured  water 
bed  for  Walt  and  hope  to  get  him  on  it  to-morrow.  He  is  not 
disposed  to  talk  because  he  is  really  not  able  to  talk,  and  no  one 
has  much  to  Sc^y  to  him.  Longaker  himself  spares  every  question 
he  can. 

March  24. — Could  not  get  Walt  on  his  water  bed  to-day. 
This  has  been  what  he  calls  the  worst  day  of  his  life.  Did  not 
eat  a  bite  till  late  in  the  afternoon.  Looks  sad  and  sick  as  death. 
Turnings  now  average  three  an  hour. 

Midnight. — Walt  just  put  in  his  water  bed  and  I  am  home 
again.  He  was  quite  exhausted,  but  seemed  to  be  easily  re* 
stored  to  his  general  condition  (bad  enough,  of  course).     We 


r"1 


mill 


4g4  ^  ^^   WALT  WHITMAN. 

placed  him  on  a  sofa  while  we  adjusted  things,  and  his  moans 
and  gasps  (from  pain  and  for  breath)  played  me  on  all  the 
chords  of  feeling.  I  never  spoke  a  word  to  him  save  as  was 
required  in  our  work.  How  glad  he  was  to  get  back  again! 
The  picture  will  ever  remain  one  of  mingled  pain  and  joy. 
I  sorrowed  to  see  him  in  such  need,  and  so  emaciated,  and  I 
felt  joyous  in  the  prospect  that  what  we  did  there  might  perhaps 
mean  some  rest  for  his  wearied  body. 

March  25 — Evening. — Walt  worse  to-day  than  yesterday,  but 
much  at  peace  with  his  water  bed,  which  floats  him  into  semi- 
comfort  at  last.  But  the  dreadful  weakness  creeps  on.  Inger- 
80II  writes  Walt  a  lovely  note.* 

March  26 — Morning. — Walt's  night  easier,  and  he  sleeps  well. 
The  buoyant  bed  is  for  the  present  just  the  thing  for  him.  He 
is  no  longer  turned  as  often  as  he  was,  and  now  only  asks  to  be 
lifted  or  simply  to  be  helped  to  a  changed  position. 

Evening — (Telegram  to  Dr.  Bucke). — Walt  has  just  died — 
6  :  43 — come  at  once. 


The  end  came  simply  and  peacefully.  Whitman  conscious 
to  the  last,  calm  and  undisturbed.  About  4:30  p.  m.  he  was 
seen  to  be  visibly  sinking,  and  Dr.  McAlister,  Harned  and 
Traubel  were  at  once  sent  for  and  came — the  doctor  arriving 
at  5  :  30.  When  questioned  by  the  doctor,  Walt  faintly  smiled 
and  whispered  that  he  felt  no  pain.  Later  he  beckoned  Mrs. 
Davis  and  whispered  to  her,  "  Won't  you  lift  me  up?  "  He  was 
carefully  raised  and  a  pillow  placed  under  his  shoulder,  after 
which  he  lay  quietly  with  his  eyes  closed,  breathing  faintly. 
Shortly  after  6  o'clock  he  opened  his  eyes  and  in  his  last  whisper 
said,  "  Warry,  shift."  Warren  carefully  moved  him,  and,  mo- 
mentarily opening  his  eyes  again,  he  smiled  faintly  his  apprecia- 
tion. He  lay  very  quietly,  his  respiration  growing  shorter. 
Outside,  a  gentle  rain  and  the  closing  day.     The  end  came — 

*  {From  Warren  Fn'/zinger.)—Same  date,  to  this  effect :  When  I 
turned  him  just  now  the  water  splashed  round  and  round,  like  water  dash- 
ing up  a  ship's  side.  I  told  him  so,  and  he  laughed,  or  attempted  to,  when 
the  mucus  In  his  throat  prevented  him. 


LAST  DAYS  OF  WALT  WHITMAN. 


435 


quietly  as  "a  lapsing  breeze,"  his  right  hand  resting  in  that  of 
Horace  Traubel,  his  spirit  child,  who  was  the  last  person  on 
earth  whom  he  recognized.  It  was  as  though  his  own  wish, 
expressed  long  ago,  had  been  fulfilled : — 

"  At  the  last,  tenderly, 
From  the  walls  of  the  powerful  fortress'd  house, 
From  the  clasp  of  the  knitted  locks,  from  the  keep  of  the  well-closed . 

doors, 
Let  me  be  wafted. 

Let  me  glide  noiselessly  forth ; 

With  the  key  of  softness  unlock  the  locks — with  a  whisper* 

Set  ope  the  doors,  O  soul. 

Tenderly — be  not  impatient,  .        . 

(Strong  is  your  hold,  O  mortal  flesh,  '.. 

Strong  is  your  hold,  O  love.)  "  . 


U 


'*''IW»Wi'^'j  • 


WALT  WHITMAN  :  MARCH  26,  1892. 


(436) 


Darknkss  niul  death?     Nay,  Pioneer,  for  ihce 

The  ilay  of  deeper  vision  has  bcjriin ; 

There  is  no  darkness  for  the  central  sun 

Nor  any  death  for  immortality. 

At  last  the  sonj;  of  all  fair  songs  that  he, 

At  last  the  guerdon  of  u  race  well  run, 

The  ujiswelling  joy  to  know  the  victory  won, 

The  river's  rapture  when  it  finds  the  sea. 

Ah,  thou  art  wrought  in  an  heroic  mould, 
The  Modnn  Man  upon  whose  brow  yet  stayi 
A  gleam  of  glory  froia  the  age  of  gold — 
A  iliadcm  which  all  the  gods  iiave  kissed. 
Hail  and  farewell!     Flower  of  the  anti(|ue  days, 
Democracy's  divine  protagonist. 

frantis  Hotuard  IVilliams, 


AT  THE  GRAVESIDE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN. 


By  HORACE  L.    IKAUBEL. 


Walt  Whttman  died  March  26,  1892,  and  was  buried  in  Har- 
leigh  Cemetery,  Camden,  New  Jersey,  Wednesday,  Marcii  jotii. 
The  funeral  was  attended  with  no  form  and  little  ceremony.  Tlic 
body  was  offered  to  public  view  at  328  Mickle  street  towards 
eleven  of  the  morning,  and  was  covered  at  two.  Within  these 
hours  several  thotisand  people  passed  through  the  hall  and  about 
the  coffin  of  the  dead  poet.  Tliere  was  an  incessant  stream  whi<  h 
would  have  continued  its  flow  till  sundown  if  at  tlie  last  it  had  not 
been  necessary  absolutely  id  arbitrarily  to  ciit  it  olf.  The  day 
was  fair  and  mild.  The  curious  throngs  that  visited  the  house 
and  lou'^ged  about  the  streets  from  early  morn  until  the  cortege 
had  departed  suggested  inevitably  the  democratic  character  of  him 
to  whom  the  interest  was  a  tribute.  Not  a  mean  part  of  those 
who  filed  past  the  coffin  at  noon-time  were  workingmen  to  whom 
Whitman  was  personally  known  ;  and  school-children,  and  urchins 
out  of  the  street,  and  mothers  and  fathers,  with  city  officials  and 
ministers  and  divers  professional  men  and  women,  not  a  few 
artists  being  sprinkled  along  the  line,  mingled  on  equal  terms  for 
a  last  look  at  the  dear  dead  face  and  the  folded  hands. 

The  services  at  llarleigh  were  in  the  open  air.  The  platform 
and  a  little  area  fronting  it  were  covered  with  a  tent.  The  car- 
riages had  passed  out  the  Haddonfield  pike  and  into  Harleigh, 
disburdening  their  freight  somewhat  towards  the  edge  of  the 
crowd.  The  bearers  of  the  coffin  were  preceded  by  a  chosen 
few  of  Whitman's  friends  and  followed  by  others.  The  proces- 
sion into  the  tent,  past  the  thousand  eager,  serious,  on-pressing 
faces,  and  under  the  folds  of  the  tent,  was  touched  with  the 
ardent  color  of  a  new  faith.     No  words  were  said.     Those  wha 

(437) 


iSK 


■»[! 


438 


IN  RE  WALT  WHITMAN. 


were  to  speak  took  places  upon  a  slightly  raised  platform: 
Tliomas,B.  Harned,  Robert  G.  IngersoU,  Richard  Maurice  Bucke, 
Francis  Howard  Williams,  Daniel  G.  Brinton.  With  them  was 
John  Burroughs,  who,  though  not  to  speak,  ranked  high  as  any 
in  closeness  of  associa'ion  and  love  with  Whitni4n.  When  all 
were  seated,  quiet  fell  upon  the  gathering  as  by  its  own  free  feel- 
ing. The  sides  of  the  tent  were  all  out.  Far  on  every  hand, 
up  the  incline  of  the  hill,  down  towards  the  lake,  was  a  stretch- 
ing, breathing  arena  of  faces.  The  speakers  now  arose,  one  after 
another,  utteriny;  their  word,  without  preliminary  or  break.  What 
was  read  and  spoken  appears  below,  line  for  line,  in  its  due  order. 
It  had  been  the  purpose  to  have  nothing  done  that  could  not  be 
done  by  Whitman's  nearer  lovers  and  friends  in  his  own  spirit, 
without  the  insult  of  parade  or  ceremonial.  And  what  was  sought 
was  secured.  As  Robert  G.  IngersoU  said  his  last  word  and  sat 
<lown,  the  great  hush  that  had  fallen  was  broken  by  the  faint  sobs 
of  men  and  women  overcome  by  the  strain  of  emotion. 

Again  the  coffin  was  lifted — again  the  procession  trailed  its 
burden  on.  And  at  the  tomb  nothing  was  said  ;  only  at  every 
point  the  faces:  up  the  hill,  along  the  road — some  so  distant  they 
could  not  share  in  the  direct  scene  and  yet  were  loth  to  go  until  it 
was  known  that  all  was  done.  Birds  sang,  the  fresh  leafage  rustled 
in  a  gentle  breeze,  the  smell  of  the  new  year  filled  the  senses. 

A  great  man  stood  near  me.  He  said  :  "  We  seem  to  leave 
a  greater  part  of  the  best  that  is  in  us  here  with  him  " — adding, 
however:  "And  yet  curiously  we  will  go  out  afresh  into  life, 
doubly-armed  by  what  he  has  given  in  return." 

Let  this  simple  recital  pass  for  its  worth.  Thos.^  who  shared 
the  day  and  its  experiences  know  that  no  word  coula  more  than 
Iiint  of  them.  I  omit  names.  Faithful  friends  were  there. 
Wreaths  and  flowers  were  sent  by  many  who  could  not  be  present. 
Brave  and  tender  words  came  by  every  mail  and  were  flashed 
across  the  sea,  and  that  night,  in  the  sweet  phrase  of  one  who  had 
spoken  at  his  grave,  "  he  slept  beneath  a  wilderness  of  flowers." 

We  thought  we  had  buried  him.  But  he  eluded  the  darkness 
and  the  pall.  He  reappeared  in  us.  We  turned  from  death  and 
took  up  "  the  burden  and  the  lesson  "  eternal  of  life. 


rsr^ssraaac*!! 


AT  THE  QRAVESIDE  OF  WALT  WIHTMAN.  4^9 

FRANCIS  HOWARD  WILLIAMS: 

These  are  the  words  of  Walt  Whitman : 

Com^  lovely  and  soothing  death, 

Undulate  round  the  world,  serenely  arriving,  arriving^        '  • 

In  the  day,  in  the  night,  to  all,  to  each. 

Sooner  or  later  delicate  death. 

Prais'd  be  the  fathomless  unizierse. 
For  life  and  Joy,  and  for  objects  and  knowledge  curious. 
And  for  love,  sweet  love — but  praise  !  praise  !  praise  ! 
For  the  sure-enwinding  arms  of  cool-enfolding  death. 

Dark  mother  always  f^liding  near  ivith  soft  feet,  : 

have  none  chanted  for  thee  a  chant  of  fullest  welcome  ? 
Then  I  chant  it  for  thee,  I  glorify  thee  above  all, 
J  bring  thee  a  song  that  when  thou  must  indeed  come,  come  unfalter- 
ingly. 

Approach  strong  deliver  ess, 

When  it  is  so,  when  thou  hast  taken  them  I  Joyously  sing  the  dead. 

Lost  in  the  loving  floating  ocean  of  thee. 

Laved  in  the  Jlood  of  thy  bliss  O  death. 

From  me  to  thee  glad  serenades. 

Dances  for  thee  I  propose  saluting  thee,  adornments  and  f eastings 

for  thee. 
And  the  sights  of  the  open  landscape  and  the  high-spread  sky  are 

fitting. 
And  life  and  the  fields,  and  the  huge  and  thoughtful  night. 

The  night  in  silence  under  many  a  star. 

The  ocean  shore  and  the  husky  whispering  wave  7vhose  voice  I  know. 
And  the  soul  turning  to  thee  O  vast  and  well-veH" d  death, 
And  the  body  gratefully  nestling  close  to  thee. 

Over  the  tree-tops  1  float  thee  a  song. 

Over  the  rising  and  sinking  waves,  over  the  myriad  fields  and  the 
prairies  wide, 


'.      f 


44° 


/iV  RK  WAl.r  W  HI  I'M  AX, 


Ovff  thf  ifensffiack"  <i  tiftrs  a// it  Hi/  thf  tfeminx  whiuves  anifways, 
1  float  this  carol  with  joy,  with  joy  to  thff  O  death, 

TIU)MAS  B.  HAHNliD-: 

We  have  come  liere  lo-<lay  to  cntotnb  tlic  body  of  Walt  Wl\it- 
inaii.  We  do  not  rome  in  sadncHS.  The  great  singer  of  death 
anti  innnortality  woidd  have  ns  ntlcr  »)nly  words  of  joy.  We  who 
have  been  the  personal  witnesses  of  his  tlaily  hal)it  have  no  right 
to  be  siK'nt.  In  the  presence  of  death  it  becomes  our  duty  to 
give  testimony  to  tlie  consislenc  y  of  his  bfe. 

I  an»  diarged  willi  tlie  special  duly  to  speak  for  this  city,  in 
which  he  has  bved  for  many  years.  1  Ic  came  lo  Canuh-n  in  1873, 
pcor,  jKiralyzed  and  sick.  He  liad  no  llionght  llieii  tlmt  liis  bfe 
ivouUl  be  proloMgeil.  lie  had  given  his  best  years  lo  the  nursing 
t  f  jldiers.  No  tongue  can  tell  the  extent  of  that  ministry. 
Wii'  .ntiring  fidelity  lie  servetl  Ids  country.  'I'he  history  of  the 
war  pasents  no  instance  of  nobler  fuiniment  of  duty  or  sublimer 
.sacrifice.  The  stalwart  physiijue  broke  under  the  terrible  strain, 
and  ihis  man  lame  among  us  to  spend  his  lust  days.  Kor  more 
than  seventeen  years  he  has  been  a  familiar  ligurc.  During  these 
long  years  of  suffering  no  one  has  ever  hear!  him  utter  a  word 
of  complaint.  We  know  of  his  gentleness,  his  charity,  his  wis- 
dom, his  simplicity,  his  inspiring  ami  iheery  voice,  his  m.ijeslir 
and  venerable  liguic,  his  strong  and  classic  face,  cast  in  an  aiiticpic 
mould.  We  have  seen  him  on  our  streets,  or  frecpienting  the  ferry- 
boats, or  driving  over  the  neighboring  roads.  His  comttanions 
have  been  from  every  walk  of  life,  more  especially  among  the 
poor  and  humble.  He  has  taken  a  personal  interest  in  the  wel- 
fare of  mechanics,  deck-hands,  car-drivers  and  other  sons  of  toil. 
He  was  the  friend  of  children,  and  they  all  loved  him.  Although 
persons  of  eminence  in  literary  and  public  life  paid  him  lu)mage, 
he  cared  more  for  the  companionship  of  the  common  people. 

How  fitting  it  is  at  this  supreme  juncture  to  jiroclaim  his  mag- 
nificent courage!  livery  moment  of  his  life  tallied  with  the 
teachings  of  his  books.  He  never  bent  the  knee  to  wealth  and 
power.  His  love  of  humanity  was  so  broad  that  lo  him  the  ragged 
urchin  was  as  dear  as  the  learned  scholar.     He  had  a  message  for 


'^^Hn^mmismm 


AT  TltK  nRAVRSrPK  OF  WAt.T   WmTMAff. 


44 « 


nmnkiiitl,  niitl  wimt  lie  Imtl  to  sny  lie  said  with  foarlcssiirHs  and 
without  a|)()h)^y.  lie  never  lliiiclicd  under  llie  most  adverse  (en- 
sure ;  and  wlicn,  in  liis  dei  lining;  yv.u--,  lie  realized  tliat  lie  liad 
been  ac  ( epted  and  honored  l)y  tlie  ^rtatesl  men  ol  his  own  time, 
his  modesty  was  rliiUllike  and  Herene.  IaI  llie  day  Itring  hcillh 
or  nicknesH,  pleasure  or  pain,  K<dn  or  loss,  praise  or  censure,  he 
ever  journeyeil  "  the  even  tenor  of  his  way." 

A  predominant  trait  of  his  <  harat  ler  was  Kr^.tliiide,  and  it  is 
bee  aiise  of  his  personal  retniest  to  me  that  I  speak  to-day  to  return 
his  thanks  to  the  people  of  ('anulen  for  their  many  acts  of  kind- 
ness while  he  was  one  (»f  their  hiimlile  fellow-c.iti/,ens.  "  Don't 
forget,"  he  said,   "  to  say,  thanks,  thanks,  thanks." 

Year  by  year  he  grew  feebler,  and  his  ability  io  walk  lessened, 
until,  at  last,  he  <  oiild  not  leave  the  house;  but  his  ability  to 
Work,  his  serene  faith,  his  joyous  < oiiraj^e,  never  faltered  or  les- 
sened. Mis  tenacity  of  purpose  never  weakened.  No  one  c  (nild 
deteit  any  intelhv  lual  shingishness  or  the  timidity  of  a^^e.  liis 
keen  insight  ami  ( lear  visicjii  never  failed  him. 

I  deem  it  my  duty  to  inenticm  two  iinportam  'ju^    ;  one,  his 

I'OSITIVK  UKI.IKK  IN  IMMUKTAI.M  V,  aud  the  other  'lis  KJfft.l.KSSNKSS 
OK  ItKATII. 

With  him  immortality  was  not  a  hope  or  a  brautifiil  dream, 
lie  believed  that  we  all  live  in  an  eternal  uuiver.o,  and  that  man 
is  as  indestructible  as  his  Creator.  His  ws  of  relij^ion  have 
been  inisunderstood.  lie  was  tolerant  of  the  opinions  of  others, 
and  recognized  the  good  in  all  religious  systems,  liis  philnsojihy 
was  without  the  limitaticui  of  treed,  and  inc  bided  the  best  thought 
of  every  age  and  dime. 

This  faith  in  the  Iminorlality  of  identity  remained  to  the  last, 
and  he  gladly  welromed  death  as  the  "  Usherer,  (luide  at  last  to 
all."  We  who  have  visited  him  in  his  sickness  know  of  his  utter 
fearlessness  of  death.  He  who  sang  I  he  immortal  death  c;arol  wailed 
for  "  lovely  and  soothing  death  "  with  the  serenity  of  a  child. 

His  life-work  is  finished.  The  consecration  is  complete.  We 
say  we  have  known  him.  Have  any  of  us  known  him?  Does  not 
Buch  a  life  baflle  our  understanding? 

Caiiidcn  will  be  best  known  and  honored  because  it  has  known 


'!'<"*«>ll4!IH|MBpi 


443 


IN  RE  WALT  WHITMAN. 


and  honored  Walt  Whitman.  In  this  beautiful  and  fitting 
burial-ground  we  place  all  of  him  that  is  mortal.  Future 
generations  will  visit  this  shrine  in  their  adoration  of  one  of  the 
world's  immortals. 

FRANCIS  Howard  WILLIAMS. 

These  are  the  words  of  Confucius: 

A/l  thf  living  must  liie,  and  dyinf:;,  return  to  the  ground. 


The  hones  and  flesh  moulder  away  hehw,  and  hidden  away,  become 
the  earth  of  the  fields.  But  the  spirit  issues  forth  and  is  displayed 
on  hi):;h  in  a  condition  of  glorious  hrightt  fss. 

These  are  the  words  of  Gautama : 

The  state  that  is  peaceful^  free  from  body,  from  passion  and  from 
fear,  lohere  birth  or  death  is  not — that  is  Nirt'ana, 

ft  is  a  calm  wherein  no  icind  blows. 

Ninnma  is  the  completion  and  opposite  shore  of  existence,  free  from 
decay,  iranquil,  hunving  no  restraint,  and  of  great  blessedness. 

The  wind  cannot  be  squeezed  in  the  hand,  nor  cm  its  color  be 
told.     Vet  the  wind  is.     £7>en  so  Nirvana  is. 

Tliese  are  the  words  of  Jesus  the  Christ : 

Blessed  are  the  poor  in  spirit ;  for  theirs  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven. 

Blessed  are  they  that  mourn  ;  for  they  shall  be  comforted. 

Blessed  are  the  meek  ;  for  they  shall  inherit  the  earth. 

Blessed  are  they  which  do  hun^^er  and  thirst  after  righteousness  ; 
for  they  shall  be  filled. 

Blessed  are  the  merciful ;  for  they  shall  obtain  mercy. 

Blessed  are  the  pure  in  heart ;  for  they  shall  see  God. 

DANIEL  G.  BRINTON: 

Friends  of  the  dead,  comrades  and  lovers  of  him  who  has  left 
lis — We  meet  to  bid  farewell  to  him  whose  life  and  thoughts  have 
forged  the  bonds  between  us.  We  feared  that  in  midwinter  he 
would  have  been  taken  from  us ;  but  he  abided  until  the  flowers 
of  spring  have  come  to  deck  his  sepulchre,  and  until  the  leaves 


STi-SKt—r^-Ttr!;: 


AT  TIIK  GRAVESIDE  OF   WALT  WHITMAN. 


443 


of  grass,  typical  to  his  soul  of  the  mystic  energy  of  nature,  stretch 
out  their  tender  fronds  toward  his  tomb. 

His  contending  spirit  hns  reached  the  end  of  the  untried  roads 
he  loved  to  follow.  Through  sharp  defeats  and  baffled  crises  he 
has  fought  nut  the  fight,  ever  marching  on  with  clear  eyes  fixed 
on  the  well-marked  goal.  I  lis  spirit  has  passed  beyond  the 
"  frontiers  to  eyes  impenetrable."  The  "dark  mother,  gliding 
near  with  soft  feel,"  has  taken  this  child  to  her  sure-enwinding 
arms,  and  laves  him  in  the  flood  of  her  bliss.  We  stand  on  the 
hither  shore,  and  our  eyes  have  not  force  to  search  the  dimness 
of  the  floating  ocean  into  which  he  has  journeyed.  Let  us  turn 
to  note  the  legacy  he  has  left. 

No  idler  was  he,  no  dallier  with  the  golden  hours  ;  but  arduous, 
contentious,  undisstiadable  and  infinitely  loving.  He  came  bear- 
ing the  burden  of  a  Gospel,  the  (lospel  of  the  Individual  Man ; 
he  came  teaching  that  the  soul  is  not  more  than  the  body,  and 
that  the  body  is  riot  more  than  the  soul ;  and  that  nothing,  not 
God  himself,  is  greater  to  one  than  one's  self  is. 

He  asked  no  man  to  accept  his  teachings,  or  to  become  his 
disciple,  or  to  call  him  master.  His  strong  voice  resounded 
above  the  heads  of  all  higl>  men,  and  over  the  roofs  of  the  world. 
It  challenged  alike  wealth  and  power,  and  want  and  death,  pro- 
claiming tliat  man,  the  one  man,  the  individual,  every  individual, 
has  all  rights  and  all  powers,  is  the  autocrat  of  the  world,  sole 
ruler  of  the  universe — let  him  only  enforce  his  claims  and  make 
good  his  title. 

His  words  are  perpetual  warnings  to  all  sects  and  syndicates, 
to  all  leagues  and  orders  which  bind  men's  mimls  or  muscles  to 
the  bidding  of  another,  which  make  them  slaves  in  thought  or  in 
action  ;  and  a  warning  against  that  worse  and  commoner  bondage 
to  one's  own  self,  to  imbibed  traditions,  to  cultivated  fears,  to 
accepted  and  self-forged  shackles.  He  who  would  gain  true 
freedom,  who  would  feel  soul  and  body  stinging  with  a  new,  an 
electric  life,  the  life  of  one's  self,  let  him  patiently,  persistently 
seek  the  meaning  of  that  legacy  of  verse  left  with  us  by  him  whom 
now  we  consign  to  the  clasp  of  the  tomb. 

Never  did  he  fear  that  fatal  and  certain  end.     Idle,  indeed,  it 


'^«mf 


*UM 


444 


ly  lih'    WALT   WlHTMAy. 


was  for  Death  to  try  to  nturm  liim.  Almost  did  it  seem  that  to 
him,  iis  to  tlie  mighty  sage  of  Kapilavustii,  the  Kinf{  of  Terrors 
had  kIvci)  ii|>  iiis  secret,  and  in  liis  ear  had  whis|>ere(l  iiints  of 
cheer  and  joy.  Deatit  liad  come  to  him  to  mean  the  trtitl) 
"without  name,"  the  "  woni  unsiid,"  not  to  be  found  "in  any 
dictionary,  utterance,  symbol,"  the  creative  sign,  "  the  friend 
whose  embracing  "  should  awake  him. 

.  Therefore  he  harl)«)rcd  no  suspii  ion  of  deatli ;  but  he  forgot 
not  that  his  concern,  and  that  of  all  men,  is  not  with  death,  but 
with  life;  not  with  that  which  tannot  be  said,  but  witii  tiiat  the 
saying  and  doing  of  whi(  h  will  help  the  weak  and  gladden  the 
strong,  lift  the  falling  ami  enlighten  the  thoughtful,  spread  robust 
love  between  men  and  tender  sympathy  among  women.  This  was 
his  practical  n)ission. 

On  tlic  portal  of  the  holiest  shrine  in  ancient  CJreece  were  in- 
scribed the  words,  '•  Know  thyself;  "  the  ntessage  of  "  the  I'ilot 
of  the  (lalilean  I^ike"  was,  "  Deny  thyself;"  the  iteration  of 
this  child  of  the  doctrine  of  the  inner  light,  whose  mortal  remains 
we  now  consign  to  the  tond),  was,  "  He  thyself." 

There  is  no  conflict  in  these  teachings.  They  are  the  evolution 
of  the  self-same  sentiment.  They  are  all  end)raced  in  one  line 
of  him  whom  Walt  Whitman  in  his  strong  and  homely  phrase 
called  •'  the  boss  of  all  of  us  " — 

"  Sclfrcvrrcnce,  sclfkiu)wlc«lKo,  tcirconlrol, 
These  three  nlonc  lend  life  to  suverei|;n  power." 

Be  thyself;  suffer  neither  the  tyranny  which  comes  from  the 
assumptions  of  others,  nor  that  which  proceeds  from  thine  own 
lower  nature ;  true  to  thyself,  never  canst  thou  be  false  to  any 
one — to  man,  to  woman,  or  to  God.  This  was  ///>  teaching  to 
whom  we  now  bid  farewell — the  long,  the  timeless  farewell. 


FRANCIS  HOWARD  WiLUAMS: 

These  are  the  words  of  the  Koran  : 

//<•  //  is  who  made  the  sun  for  a  brightness  and  the  moon  for  a 
Hght. 


AT  TIIH  UHAVKsntE  OF   WA/.T   Will  I  MAS. 


445 


Verily,  in  Ihf  alh't  tuition  of  nif^/it  ant/  Jiiy,  iin,/  in  lohiit  Goii  hits 
ertatfd  of  the  htavfns  and  Ihf  earth,  are  sit^tn  unto  a  people  who  lio 
fear. 

letily  those  who  believe  and  do  what  it  rii^ht,  their  P.ord ^i^uides 
them  h  their  faith ;  ieneath  them  shall  riven  flow  in  the  ^ardem 
of  pleasure, 

Tlifsc  arc  tlie  wnnls  of  Isaiah  ; 

0  Lord,  I  will  praise  thee ;  thouf^h  thou  wast  an^^ry  with  »//•, 
thine  an,t,'er  is  turned  away,  and  thou  comfortedst  me. 

Jiehold,  God  is  my  salvation  ;  I  will  trust  and  not  be  afraid ; 
for  the  Lord  Jehovah  is  my  streuf^th  and  my  son^  ;  he  also  is  become 
my  salvation. 

Tlu'HC  arc  the  words  of  Jolin  :  . 

1  am  the  Resurrection  and  the  Life,  saith  the  Lord ;  he  that  be- 
iieveth  in  me,  thouj^h  he  were  dead,  yet  shall  he  live ;  and  whosoever 
believeth  in  me  shall  never  die. 

RiCMAKi)  MAUi<ic:i;   BucKE; 

My  friends,  tliis  hour  and  phuc  will  be  nicniorahle  for- 
ever, for  here  and  now  we  consij^n  to  its  rest  all  that  was  mortal 
of  a  great  man,  a  man  who  has  graved  a  deep  mark  on  his  age 
and  who  will  cut  a  yet  deeper  furrow  across  the  face  of  the  future. 

There  is  this  difficulty  in  speaking  about  Walt  VVhitman  :  lie 
was  so  great,  he  stood  so  apart  from,  so  far  above,  other  men, 
that  when  our  who  knew  bin)  attempts  to  di-pict  him  to  those 
who  did  not,  the  reporter  inevitably  makes  such  dainis  as  cause 
ihim  to  be  charged  with  extravagant  exaggeration.  Not  only  so, 
^njt  on  account  of  the  greatness  and  especially  of  the  tmiversality 
of  our  friend,  even  those  who  lived  close  about  him,  though  con- 
scious of  remarkable  <|ualities  in  the  man,  were  almost  never  able 
to  realize  in  any  adecpiate  degree  the  man  himself. 

Over  and  above  all  ordinary  greatness  (greatness  of  percep- 
tion, of  intellect,  of  will,  of  moral  qualities,  of  intuition,  of 
spiritual  exalcatiop  and  illumination,  and  of  the  power  of  keen 
and  accurate  expression — and  all   these  greatnesses  and  many 


446 


ny  JiK   WALT   WIUTMAN. 


■  ft' 


more  he  had),  over  an«i  above  all  these  he  had  in  an  eminent 
(legree  that  crowning  endowment,  faculty,  quality,  or  whatever 
it  may  be  called,  the  possession  of  which  causes  a  man  to  be 
picked  out  from  the  rest  and  set  apart  as  an  object  of  affection. 
In  his  own  vivid  language,  "  He  has  tlie  pass-key  of  hearts,  to 
hini  the  response  of  the  prying  of  hands  on  the  knobs." 

Our  very  presence  here  to-tlay,  many  of  us  from  distant  States 
antl  jirovinces,  testifies  to  the  truth  of  what  I  say ;  but  had  otir 
hearts  and  lives  adequate  voices,  many  of  them  would  tell  far 
more  emphatically  of  the  place  in  them  that  has  been  taken  by 
our  dead  friend  ;  for  he,  though  a  stranger,  has  been  to  many 
of  us  closer  than  the  closest — more  than  all  the  rest. 

You  know  all  this  as  well  as  I.  All  that  I  have  said  or  can 
say  is  an  oUl  story.  You,  as  well  as  I,  know  the  place  he  occu- 
pies in  the  eyes  of  the  world  to-day,  and  the  place  he  is  to 
occupy  in  the  future.  You,  as  well  as  I,  feel  the  place  he  has 
occupied  in  our  hearts  and  lives.  The  deep  sense  of  loss  is 
present  with  you,  as  it  is  with  me.  And  our  grief  to-day  is 
scarcely  lessened  by  the  knowledge  that  the  work  of  tnir  friend 
is  done  and  well  done,  his  rest  well  earneil,  and  that,  though  to 
our  senses  dead,  yet,  in  reality,  he  more  than  ever  before  lives — 
and  will  live  as  long  as  the  heart  of  htmianity  beats  at  the  mem- 
ory of  great  deeds  and  heroic  lives  and  deaths. 

That  1  am  not  overwhohned  and  crushed,  cither  by  our  los* 
or  by  the  gravity  and  greatness  of  this  occasion,  that  I  can  stand 
here  and  speak  calmly  of  our  great  friend  who  is  gone — "  I  so 
fallible,  so  infinitely  low  before  (his)  mighty  majestic  spirit :  I 
so  simple,  (he)  so  august," — is  cause  of  astonishment  to  myself, 
as  it  well  may  be  to  yoti. 

I  am  sustained  by  his  strength  far  more  than  by  my  own.  \ 
have  not  known  him,  loved  him  and  studied  him  a  quarter  of  a 
century  for  nothing. 

His  trust  in  the  essential  friendliness  to  man  of  the  infinite 
universe ;  his  calm  and  contented  acceptance  of  all  that  is  or 
that  happens  ;  his  absolute  assurance  that  he  and  all  of  us  came 
well  and  shall  go  well  ;  his  conviction  that  death  ("  God's  eternal, 
"beautifid  right  hand,"  as  he  named  it)  is  not  an  evil  'jut  a  good ; 


a 

( 


AT  THE  aiiAVF.SI!)K  OF   WALT  Wtf/nfAN. 


447 


in  fine,  his  faitli,  intense,  glowing,  vital  beyond  the  limits  of  any 
1  have  elsewhere  known  or  rcatl  of,  have  been  to  me  the  great 
solarc  of  my  iifo,  and  are  to-day  my  powerful  and  sufficient  support. 

The  old  days  in  which  his  presence  was  so  large  a  part  of  my 
life  come  bark  to  me,  and  live  constantly  before  me,  enveloped 
in  a  haze  of  sadness  (how  conld  it  be  otherwise?)  ;  but  I  do  not 
lament  or  repine  ;  I  am  trampiil  and  resigned.  Wliatever  others 
may  tiiink  or  say,  I  (inspired  and  informed  by  the  great  soul 
which  has  just  left  us)  have  made  up  my  mind  that  I  shall  not ' 
give  in  to  this  arrogant  and  masterful  Time  Spirit  who  desires  to 
deceive  and  enslave  us.  I  am  not  going  for  one  instant  to  admit 
that  Time,  Death,  or  any  other  power  or  influence  can  take  from 
us  what  we  have  once  had.  The  good  days  of  the  past  live  yet, 
and  will  always  live  in  the  erpially  good  »'ays  of  'lie  present  and 
future.  They  do  not  die,  they  have  not  tlicd,  they  arc  absorbed, 
transmuted,  grow,  are  never  lost. 

This  universe  is  not  the  hollow  nutshell  containing  the  rotten 
kernel  that  so  many  make  it.  It  is  vital  and  infinite.  ("  In  vain 
I  try  to  think  how  infinite.")  Infinite  not  in  one  way,  or  two 
ways,  but  In  an  infinite  number  of  ways.  What  I  the  tmiverse  not 
cai)abie  of  satisfying  our  needs  ?  On  the  contrary,  we  are  capable 
of  feeling  but  a  fraction  of  the  wants  that  it  is  able  to  satisfy. 

In  this  faith,  learned  from  the  friend  whom  we  mourn,  I  rest 
satisfied  and  at  ease. 

And  if,  dear  friend,  we  now  place  in  the  tomb  your  body, 
that  is  after  all  a  small  matter.  Wo  do  not  entomb  jw/  nor  bid 
you  farewell.  You  will  be  with  us  as  much  as  ever  .md  more 
than  ever.  You  will  be  to  us  as  m'i<:h.  as  ever  you  were,  and 
we  can  love  you  and  serve  yoti  as  well  as  if  you  were  still  what 
is  called  living.  You  are  in  fact,  and  more  than  ever,  living ; 
as  you  I)ave  said  : 

"  The  bent  of  me  then  when  no  longer  visible,  for  towards  that  1  have  been 
incessantly  prcpariiig." 

"  That  (;<)(!  sliall  lake  ihee  to  his  breast,  dear  spirit. 
Unto  his  breast  be  sure  ;  and  liere  on  earth 
Shall  splendor  sit  upon  thy  name  forever."  .    .    ,    , 


)• 


mmmetm 


448 


IX  KK   n'AW   Wlin\HAX. 


You  were  no  common  man  when  you  lived  with  us  here  on 
earth,  and  to-day  you  are  no  common  spirit  as  you  stand  amid 
the  innumerable  liost  l)cfore  tlie  throne  of  Goil. 

In  your  own  right  yo\i  took  rank  here  below  as  a  supreme 
creative  workman;  in  your  own  right  to-day  you  take  rank 
among  the  supreme  creative  gods. 

There  in  the  highest  regions  of  the  ideal  for  countless  ages 
yotir  work  will  go  on  moulding  into  higher  and  yet  more  noble 
forms  the  spirit  of  nian. 

\\)ur  life  for  me  lit  up  the  past  with  an  auroral  splendor,  and 
upon  the  world's  future  you  will  shine  a  glorious  sun,  but  the 
present  is  darkened  by  the  somber  shades  of  your  setting. 

Ihit  our  last  word  to  you  must  not  be  a  monnifnl  one,  wliat- 
ever  pain  we  may  feel.  l,ot  it  rather  be  a  cry  of  i-xultation  that 
you  were  given  to  the  world,  and  that  we  have  known  you  and 
know  you. 

That  it  has  been  my  good  fortune  to  know  both  yourself  .uid 
your  teaching  fills  me  even  this  day  with  an  unbounded  sense  of 
triumph  ;  anil  I  rejoice  to  think  antl  believe  tliat  there  are  others 
who  know  you  and  whose  record  shall  help  to  carry  on  that 
knowleilge  to  future  generations. 

All  that  is  best  in  me  I  owe  to  you,  and  as  long  as  I  live  I 
shall  honor,  thank  ami  serve  you. 


///>'  lis 

one  ih/ii 

TIlCM 


"  Ami  thoui;1i  no  ^tnnce  tpvenl  Ihou  ilocsl  accept 
My  liiini;\jjc — lliiis  110  losH,  I  prolVoi  it 
Ami  h\A  llioo  Ciller  (jloiiously  thy  rest," 

FRANCIS  Howard  Williams: 

These  arc  the  wonls  of  the  Zend  Avesta : 

///  thf  cttif  of  (hf  thirJ  ni\:;ht,  ivhev  Ihf  ifiiivn  af<f*fivs,  it  sfrms 
to  thf  soul  of  thf  faithful  out  its  if  it  u>oe  htou^ht  amiiist  plants 
a»ti  a  swfft-sffntfd  ivinii. 

Atiii  it  sffms  to  him  as  if  his  own  fonscifncf  ivere  aJvanfin);  to 
him  in  that  n>i»</,  in  thf  shaf<f  of  a  niaiilfn  fair,  hrii;/it,  white- 
arnif.l,  strong,  .   .   .    thifkhtrastfti,   beautiful  of  hody,  .   .  ,  as 


^ 


ns  here  on 
itiiiid  amid 

a  su|)rcmc 
take  rank 

ntlcss  ages 
nore  noble 

?iulor,  and 
in,  but  the 

ing. 

one,  wliat- 
tation  that 
:n  you  and 

nurself  and 

;d  sense  of 

are  others 

ry  on  that 

:  as  I  live  I 


|.f,  H  stems 
,ist  f>la»ts 

\;\jnii»f;  to 
[///,  white- 
.  .  .  as 


AT  TUK  an.WKsioE  or  ir.i/.r  wnivMAy. 


4'IQ 


/iiir  Its  thf  fiutest  thinif  in  thf  ivorhf.  /Itiii  tlw  soul  of  thf  fiiithful 
one  aifiiirssfif  Ihf,  tiski»}; :  What  nuui/  art  thou  f  Attii  she  iiU' 
srcrrc,/,  J  ivu  thy  oron  lonsiii-rtir. 

These  are  the  words  of  IMato : 

Considifiui;  thr  sou/  to  /><•  iinmortii/  anit  able  to  hear  all  evil  and 
Xi'o<l,  «'«•  shall  always />trsevete  in  the  toaii  which  leads  upwards. 

W()m;uT  (i.  iNnpi^soi.i, : 

Again  we,  in  the  niystory  of  l.ifc,  are  brought  face  to  fare 
with  the  mystery  of  Death.  A  great  niaii,  ii  groat  American, 
the  most  eii\ii\(Mit  (  ili/.i'ii  of  liiis  re|inlili(  ,  iiis  dead  before  us, 
and  we  have  met  to  pay  a  tribtite  to  his  greatness  and  his  woith. 

1  know  he  needs  no  words  of  mine.  His  fame  is  set  lire,  lie 
laid  the  fitiiiulalions  of  it  deep  in  the  liimian  heart  and  brain. 
He  was,  altove  all  I  have  known,  the  poet  of  humanity,  of  sym- 
pathy, lie  was  so  great  that  he  rose  above  the  greatest  that  he 
met  without  arrogance,  and  so  great  that  he  stooped  lo  ilie  lowest 
without  I  onsrious  condescension.  lie  never  (homed  to  be 
lower  or  greater  than  any  of  the  sons  of  mm. 

lie  cinie  into  our  generation  a  liee,  untrammelled  spirit,  with 
sympathy  for  all.  His  arm  was  beneath  the  form  o  the  sick. 
He  sympathizeil  with  the  imprisoned  and  ilespiscd,  and  even  tm 
the  brow  of  crime  he  was  great  en(<Mf^h  to  plaiethe  kiss  of 
human  svmjialhy. 

'  )i\i<  uf  the  greatest  lines  in  our  liteiature  is  his,  and  the  line 
is  great  enough  to  do  honor  to  tlio  greatest  genius  that  has  ever 
lived,  lie  said,  speaking  of  an  outcast  :  "  Not  !ill  llie  stm  cx- 
<  hides  you  do  1  ext  bide  you." 

His  charity  w.is  as  wide  as  the  sky,  and  wlicrever  there  was 
li.mian  sulTering,  human  misfortune,  the  sympathy  of  Whitman 
bent  above  it  as  the  firmament  bends  ,ibove  the  earth. 

He  was  biiil;  on  a  broad  and  splendid  plan — ample,  without 
appearing  to  have  limitations  passing  easily  for  a  brother  of 
moimlains  am  seas  and  constellations;  laring  nothing  for  the 
little  ma|)s  and  charts  with  which  timid  pilots  hug  the  shore,  but 

n 


'^5° 


IN  RE   WALT  WlilTMAF. 


giving  himself  freely  with  recklessness  of  geiiit:;,  to  winds  and 
waves  and  tiiies;  caring  for  nothiit;-.  15  \:^v.y  iS  the  stars  were 
abovo  him.  He  walked  among  men,  aniitng  writi  .s,  among 
verbal  varnishers  and  veneerers,  iiuung  lit^ii'"}'  •^"i  Inicrs  and 
tailors,  with  the  unconscious  majesty  of  .n  inlique  p')d. 

He  was  the  poet  of  that  divine  democracy  whicu  gives  equal 
rights  to  all  the  sons  and  daughters  of  men.  He  uttered  the 
great  American  voice ;  uttered  a  .song  worthy  of  the  great 
Republic.  No  man  ever  said  more  for  the  rights  of  humanity, 
more  in  favor  of  real  democracy,  of  real  justice.  He  neither 
scorned  nor  cringed,  was  neither  tyrant  nor  slav(\  He  asked 
only  to  stand  the  equal  of  his  fdlows  beneath  the  ^'reat  flag  of 
nature,  the  blue  and  stars. 

He  was  the  poet  of  Life.  It  was  a  joy  simply  to  breathe.  He 
loved  the  clouds;  he  enjoyed  the  breath  of  morning,  the  twi- 
light, the  wind,  the  winding  streams.  He  loved  to  look  at  the 
sea  when  the  waves  burst  into  the  whitecaps  of  joy.  He  loved 
the  fields,  the  hills;  he  was  acquainted  witi'  the  trees,  with 
birds,  with  all  the  beautiful  objects  of  the  earth.  He  not  only 
saw  these  objects,  but  understood  their  meaning,  and  he  used 
them  tliat  he  might  exhibit  his  heart  to  his  fellow  men. 

He  was  tlie  poet  of  Love.  He  was  not  .ishamed  of  that 
divine  passion  that  has  built  every  home  ii;  Uie  world;  that 
divine  passion  that  has  painted  every  picture  and  has  given  us 
every  real  work  of  art ;  that  diviiie  passion  that  has  made  the 
world  worth  living  in  and  has  given  some  value  to  human  life. 

He  was  the  poet  of  tiie  natural,  and  mught  men  iOt  to  be 
ashamed  of  that  which  is  natural.  He  w  ;  »,ot  only  the  poet 
of  democracy,  not  only  the  poet  of  the  great  Republic,  but  he 
was  the  poet  of  the  human  race.  He  was  not  confined  to  the 
limits  of  this  coutitry,  but  his  sympathy  went  out  over  the  seas 
t     ill  the  natio  '     >:  ihe  earth. 

He  stretched  li  his  hand  and  felt  himself  the  equal  of  all 
kings  and  of  all  princes,  and  the  brother  of  all  men,  no  matter 
how  higli,  no  matter  how  low. 

He  has  uttered  more  supreme  words  tha-i  any  writer  of  our 
century,    possibly   of  almost   any   other.      He   was,    above  all 


&^ 


AT  THE  GRAVESIDE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN. 


45  ' 


things,  a  marij  and  above  genius,  above  all  the  snow-c;  ppcd  peak* 
of  intelligence,  above  all  art,  rises  the  true  man  Greater  thaa 
all  is  the  true  man,  and  he  walked  nmo'ig  \v.s  Hlo  '-men  as  su<  iu 

He  was  tlie  uoet  of  Deatli.  He  accepted  all  life  .'thI  v'  death,, 
and  h''.  justified  all.  He  had  the  courage  to  meet  all,  and  was 
great  enough  and  splendid  enough  to  harmonize  all  and  to  accept 
all  there  is  of  life  as  a  divine  melody. 

You  know  better  than  I  what  his  life  has  been,  but  let  me  say 
one  thing ;  Knowing,  as  he  did,  what  others  can  know  and 
what  they  cannot,  he  accepted  and  absorbed  all  theories,  all 
creeds,  all  religions,and  believed  in  none.  His  philosophy  was. 
a  sky  that  embraced  all  clouds  and  accounted  for  all  clouds. 
He  had  a  philosophy  and  a  religion  of  his  own,  broader,  as  he 
believed — and  as  I  believe — than  others.  He  accepted  all,  he 
understood  all,  and  he  was  above  all. 

He  was  absolutely  true  to  himself.  He  had  frankness  and 
courage,  and  he  was  as  candid  as  liglit.  He  was  willing  that 
all  the  sons  of  men  should  be  absolutely  accpiainted  with  his 
heart  and  brain.  He  had  nothing  to  conceal.  Frank,  candid, 
pure,  serene,  noble — and  yet  for  years  he  was  maligncil  and 
slandered,  simply  because  he  had  the  candor  of  nature.  He  will  be 
understood  yet,  and  that  for  which  he  was  condemned — his  frank- 
ness, his  candor — will  add  to  the  glory  and  greatness  of  his  fame. 

He  wrote  a  liturgy  for  mankind  ;  he  wrote  a  great  and  splen- 
did psalm  of  life,  and  he  gave  to  us  the  gospel  of  humanity — 
the  greatest  gospel  that  can  be  preached. 

He  was  not  afraid  to  live,  not  afraid  to  die.  For  many  years- 
he  and  death  were  near  neighbors.  He  was  always  willing  and 
ready  to  meet  and  greet  this  king  called  Death,  and  for  many 
months  he  sat  in  the  deepening  twilight  waiting  for  the  night, 
waiting  for  the  light. 

He  never  lost  his  hoi)e.  When  the  mists  filled  the  valley>-, 
he  looked  tipon  the  mountain-tops,  and  when  the  mountain??  iii 
darkness  disappeared,  he  fixed  his  gaze  upon  the  stars. 

In  his  brain  were  the  blessed  memories  of  the  day,  and  in  his 
heart  were  mingled  the  dawn  and  dusk  of  lif 

He  was   not   afraid  j    he  was   cheerful   every   moment.     The 


4<;s 


IN  RE  WALT  WHITMAN. 


laughing  nymphs  of  day  did  not  desert  him.  They  remained 
that  they  might  clasp  the  hands  and  greet  with  smiles  the 
veiled  and  silent  sisters  of  the  night.  And  when  they  did 
come,  Walt  Whitman  stretched  his  hand  to  them.  On  one 
side  were  the  nymplis  of  the  day,  and  on  the  other  the  silent 
sisters  of  the  night,  and  so,  hand  in  hand,  between  smiles  and 
tears,  he  reached  his  journey's  end. 

From  the  frontier  of  life,  from  the  western  wave-kissed  shore, 
he  sent  us  messages  of  content  and  hope,  and  these  messages 
seem  now  like  strains  of  music  blown  by  the  "  Mystic  Trum- 
peter "  from  Death's  pale  realm. 

To  day  we  give  back  to  Mother  Nature,  to  her  clasp  and  kiss, 
one  of  the  bravest,  sweetest  souls  that  ever  lived  in  human  clay. 

Charitable  as  the  air  and  generous  as  Nature,  he  was  negligent 
of  all  except  to  do  and  say  what  he  believed  he  should  do  and 
should  say. 

And  I  to-day  thank  him,  not  only  for  you  but  for  myself,  for 
all  the  brave  words  he  has  uttered.  I  thank  him  for  all  the 
great  and  splendid  words  he  has  said  in  favor  of  liberty,  in 
favor  of  man  and  woman,  in  favor  of  motherhood,  in  favor  of 
fathers,  in  favor  of  children,  and  I  thank  him  for  the  brave 
words  that  he  has  said  of  death. 

He  has  lived,  he  has  died,  and  death  is  less  terrible  than  it  was 
before.  Thousands  and  millions  will  walk  down  into  the 
"dark  valley  of  the  shadow"  holding  Walt  Whitman  by  the 
hand.  Long  after  we  are  dead  the  brave  words  he  has  spoken 
will  sound  like  i.umpets  to  the  dying. 

And  so  I  lay  this  little  wreath  upon  this  great  man's  tomb.  I 
loved  him  living,  and  I  love  him  still. 


y  remained 

smiles  the 

they  did 

On  one 

the  silent 

smiles  and 

ssed  shore, 
J  messages 
tic  Trum- 

5  and  kiss, 

mian  clay. 

negligent 

lid  do  and 

myself,  for 
for  all  the 
liberty,  in 
n  favor  of 
the   brave 

than  it  was 
I  into  the 
lan  by  the 
las  spoken 

3  tomb.     I 


BOOKS  TO  BE  HAD  OF 

DAVID  ricKAY, 

Publisher  and  Bookseller, 

33  S.  NINTH  ST.,        -         -         -         PHILADELPHIA 


Leaves  of  Grass,  brought  up  to  1893. 

Poems— iucMditig  Sands  at  Seventy  and  Good -Bye,  My 
Fancy  {(he  Annex  pieces  of  iSS8  and  iSgz).     Price,  $2. 

Leaves  of  Grass  :  Pocket  Edition,  1889. 

Poems — with  A  Backward  G-lance  o'er  Travel  d  Roads. 
Morocco.  Autographed.  $/(>.  This  volume  may  be  ordered  direct 
of  Horace  L.  Traubel,  Camden,  New  Jersey. 

Complete  Prose  Works,  brought  up  to  1893. 

I^ose—A  Biography  — Memoranda  of  the  Secession  Wu,  and 
Army  Hospital  Labors  at  the  Time  and  on  the  Spot — With  Many 
Essays  {^including  Dexaocratic  Vistas),  etc.,  etc.     Price,  $2. 

November  Boughs.  V 

Including  A  Backward  O-lanceo'er  Travel' d  Roads,  Sands 
at  Seventy  {Annex  to  Leaves  of  Grass)  and  Notes  on  Ellas 
Hicks,  etc.,  etc.     Price,  $t  2^. 

Walt  Whitman  Complete. 

A  large  volume  of  goo  pages  containing  Prose  and  Poems  com- 
plete to  1889 ;  Portraits  from  life,  and  Autograph.  Price.  $12.  This 
volume  may  be  ordered  direct  of  Horace  I,.  Traubel,  Camden,  New 
Jersey. 


'^<lood-Bye»  My  Fancy. 

Itir/uJiftff  Newer  Poems  {Second  Annex  to  Leaves  of  Grass), 
Old  Poets,  Amerioau  National  Literature,  <-/c. ,  e/c.     Price,  $t. 


I        j 


After  All,  Not  to  Create  Only. 

Recited  by  Walt  Whitman  on  Jnvitution  oj  Managers  American 
Institute  on  Openiuff  Their  Fortieth  Annual  Exhibition,  New  York, 
September  7,  j&jt.  Only  a  small  balance  0/  the  otiginal  edition, 
Boston,  iHji.     i2mo,  cloth,  jo  cents. 

Dr.  R.  M.  Buckets  Volume, 

Walt  Whitman. 

A  Biography  and  Essay.     Price,  $2. 

Good-Bye  and  Hail,  Walt  Whitman. 

A  volume  containing  Addresses  and  Readings  by  Ingersoll, 
Brinton  and  others  at  the  Graveside  of  Walt  Whitman,  March  30, 
JS92.  Also  Original  Poems  and  Letters,  from  Stedman,  Symonds, 
etc.,  etc.  Edited  by  Horace  L.  Traubel.  Fine  gray  paper,  numbered 
and  signed  by  the  editor.     Price,  50  cents. 

In  Re  Walt  Whitman. 

Edited  by  Walt  Whitman's  Literary  Executors.  Contains  Essays 
and  Poems,  original  cr  inaccessible,  from  Symonds,  Sarrazin,  Inger- 
soll, O'  Connor,  A'nortz;  Rolleston,  Schmidt,  and  others.  Cloth,  $2.00. 
Each  copy  numbered.     Edition  limited. 

Camden's  Compliment  to  Walt  Whitman 
on  His  Seventieth  Birthday. 

With  frontispiece  from  bust  by  Sidney  H  Morse.  Octavo,  cloth, 
gilt  top,  50  cents.  Containing  .Iddresses,  Letters,  Notes  and  Tele- 
grams.    Edited  by  Horace  L.  Traubel. 


• 

>es  of  Grass), 

ic.     Price,  $i. 

ers  American 

n,  New  York, 

ginal  edition, 

1. 

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bjf   Ingersoll, 

«,  March  30, 

in,   Syvwnds, 

'>er,  numbered 

niains  Essays 

razin,  Inger- 

Cloth,  $2.00. 

/hitman 

• 

}ctavo,  cloth. 

'es  and  Tele- 

V 

